


The Crooked Kind

by underatomicskies



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, College AU, Eventual Fiddlestan, Kinda?, M/M, Mullet Stan Pines, Mystery Trio before they're the Mystery Trio, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Young Stan Twins, fiddlestan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-01-23 18:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 92,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18555337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underatomicskies/pseuds/underatomicskies
Summary: Fiddleford is a student at Backupsmoore University. He meets a stranger at a payphone and makes an unlikely friend who, unbeknownst to him, has a long, complicated relationship with his roommate. The pair become close and eventually, a romance buds between them. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first fic in like,, a good 6 years? I've had this idea floating around in my head for a while so I'm excited to finally put this idea to paper (err... type?). I hope you'll like it, and please don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts! This fic, as well as chapter titles are heavily inspired by Radical Face (if you haven't heard of them, I strongly recommend you check them out). I'll be updating the tags for possible warnings as the fic progresses, and if needed, I'll include any trigger warnings in the authors notes. Happy reading!

_All my nightmares escaped my head_  
_Bar the door, please don't let them in_  
_You were never supposed to leave_  
_Now my head's splitting at the seams_

Snow was beginning to drive from the gray skies suffocating the sky. The weather had been turning gradually colder and colder as winter pressed on. It was nearly Christmas, which also meant the semester was winding down. Finals week was quickly approaching and the impending stress loomed over the young college student. It didn’t help that it was one of his last few years of college and the course work, mechanical engineering, had gotten progressively harder and more complex.

Not that any of that bothered him. He’d been building all sort of robots and improving farm machines for at least a decade. He was doing very well in his classes, but it didn’t change the fact that it was time consuming, and carving out time to study and complete projects in time for the end of the semester was easier said than done.

He technically should be studying now, but he’d been studying all day and he could at least recognize (unlike his roommate) the benefits of taking a break every now and then. What better way to do so then to get fresh air and call his family.

At least that had been his plan. Being a southern boy, he forgot how “fresh air” implied that the air outside was so cold that it hurt to breathe. Remind him why he decided to go to a school where the air hurt to breathe? Wrapping his jacket tighter around his thin shoulders, he continued along his way to where the phone booth stood, quietly stuck in between a nearby building and a mostly empty parking lot.

Opening the door, he let himself in and closed it, realizing sadly that it wasn’t any warmer inside the phone booth. Fishing through his pockets, he retrieved several coins and inserted them before dialing his home phone number. Lifting the phone to his ear (and trying not to think about all of the germs and bacteria living on the damn thing), he waited patiently as the phone beeped in his ear.

Finally, the beeping broke off as a warm voice greeted him through the phone with a thick southern accent, “Hello, McGucket residence?”

A smile tugged at the boys features as he recognized his mother’s voice. “Hi Ma!” he replied back with excitement.

“Fiddleford!” she all but shouted into his ear, earning a laugh from the man at the other end. “Honey, it’s so good to hear from you! How are you? Are you eating?”

Rolling his eyes playfully, Fiddleford laughed again, “Yes, Ma. I’m eatin’, I swear.”

“Good! You’re always so skinny; I don’t want ya wastin’ away!” His mother’s voice was warm, though Fiddleford knew his Ma well enough to tell she was worrying about him. She was always a fretful person, and that only magnified now that her son was hundreds of miles away on his own.

“I promise, Ma, I’m doin’ well. If anything, my roommate is the one who ain’t eatin’.” He laughed fondly before adding, “I guess I also got a protective mother streak in me; I’m always harping on him to eat more, or get some sleep.”

His mother laughed, “Oh, Fiddleford. You’ve always been such a sweet boy. I know I shouldn’t worry about you so, but it’s hard to not worry about your baby!”

Seeing a movement out of the corner of his eyes, Fiddleford turned to watch as a red El Diablo turned into the parking lot and parked a few spots down from the payphone.

“So, how’s your classes going, baby? Finals are comin’ up!” His mother’s voice interrupted him, turning his attention away from the car.

“They’re going well! My roommates been helping me with multivariate calculus. He’s not the best teacher since everything is so easy for him and he can’t seem to understand why I don’t get everything as quickly as he does, but he’s still been helpful.”

A noise not that far interrupted his thoughts as a car door opened. Seeing as this was a busy street, it didn’t seem odd to him so Fiddleford didn’t pay him any mind.

“That’s great, honey! You’re always such a smart cookie!”

She laughed at Fiddleford’s squak of protest.

“You know I’m so proud of my smart boy! Listen sweetie, when are you thinkin’ you can come home for Christmas?”

Fiddleford hummed in thought, briefly glancing at the car as a man emerged from the car. It was fairly dark out so he couldn’t see the man very well. He turned towards the payphone, and seeing that it was in use, strode to the front of his car and sat on the hood, lighting a cigarette that he pulled from a pack.

“Finals week is a week and a half away so probably that Friday after finals.” Fiddleford responded.

“Fantastic! And you’re still plannin’ to bring your roommate home as well, right?” his Ma asked pleasantly. Not for the first time, Fiddleford felt a swell of affection for his kind hearted mother. After explaining how vague his roommate had been about not looking forward to going home for the holidays, and talking about staying in their apartment for the holidays, his mother had offered to open their home to his roommate so he wouldn’t have to spend the holidays alone.

At first, his roommate had been hesitant. Fiddleford suspected it was because he was because he, bless his heart, wasn’t the best at social cues, or socialization for that matter. But at Fiddleford’s insistence (it also helped that he pointed out that the McGucket’s could talk to a dead person), he agreed to go.

“Yep! He’s still plannin’ on comin’! You’re gonna make your homemade apple pie still, right? I’m afraid I talked up a storm about it and he’s lookin’ forward to tryin’ it!” Fiddleford said with a laugh.

“Oh yes, sweetie,” his mom replied, chuckling, “You know I always do.”

Fiddleford grinned, “He’ll be excited to hear that.” After a brief moment, he signed and scratched the back of his neck, “Listen ma, I still got a lot of studying to do. It was great to hear your voice again, and I’ll see ya soon, ok?”

His mum’s voice sounded through the receiver, understanding but still a bit disappointed to have to get of the phone, “Of course, sweetie. You’ll do great! I’ll look forward to seeing ya soon. I love ya!”

Smiling fondly, Fiddleford replied, “I love ya too, Ma. Bye.” he said.

He heard his mother say bye as well before he hung up the phone on the hook. He opened the door to the payphone and as he raised his eyes, his gaze met the strangers, now rising from the hood of his car, flicking the cigarette butt into the growing pile of snow.

“Sorry for takin’ so long.” Fiddleford responded to him kindly. As the man approached, now under the light of the street lamp better, he noticed that the man’s coat couldn’t possibly couldn’t be warm enough to stave off the winter cold.

“No problem.” the man replied, voice gruff. A thin, trail of air coming from his mouth as he breathed. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a quarter, would ya? I wanted t’ call my ma, but I’m one quarter short.”

Fiddleford could obviously tell the man was not happy to have to ask for money from a stranger, and felt sympathy. The man just wanted to call his own mother, and how could Fiddleford deny the man that request. Nodding, he stuck his hands in his pocket and pulled out the rest of the change that he had before offering it to the man.

The man was closer now and as Fiddleford met his gaze, he gasped. The man looked just like his roommate. Or rather, he would if it weren’t for the long hair, scruffy five o’clock shadow, tired bags under his eyes (though Ford was probably sporting a pretty good pair right about now), or strange stains on his threadbare jacket. The man seemed to notice his scrutinizing gaze and appeared to shrink, as if wanting to make himself smaller. Feeling another wave of sympathy, Fiddleford offered a kind smile to the man as he added his coins to the man’s own pair.

“Say, you must be from down south, huh?” He asked. The stranger opened his mouth to reply with a look of confusion before Fiddleford cut him off, “I know how it is. I’m not used to this cold weather either. I happen to have a spare winter coat; how’d ya like to take that off my hands for me?”

The man’s face looked puzzled before he nodded, as if he was hesitating. It was if he didn’t want to take him up on his offer, but his body was too cold and forced him to agree. Fiddleford grinned.

“Thank you! You’re really doin’ me a huge favor!”

The man was starting to ease, much to Fiddleford’s joy.

“I- uh- I really appreciate that, but I really gotta call my Ma before it gets too late. I’m late enough as it is, and if I don’t call her tonight, she’s gonna talk my ear off.” The man said, shuffling his feet.

Fiddleford nodded, “Of course, of course! I gotta get back to studying but I tell ya what, why don’t ya come back here tomorrow afternoon. I can get that coat for ya, and there’s a nice coffee shop a block or two down that has a new drink I’ve been wantin’ to try out.”

The man’s eyes darted away, hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could respond, Fiddleford cut in, “And before ya object, ya know how that southern hospitality is. My own ma will have my head if she ever finds out I don’t welcome a newcomer to the town, near Christmas nonetheless.”

The guy appeared a bit overwhelmed and for a brief moment, Fiddleford wondered if he was over doing it. But how could he not? The man obviously looked like he could use a kind gesture of two, and seeing as he looked so much like his roommate, Fiddleford felt the need to be a bit extra generous to this man.

Slowly, he nodded, “Ok… yeah. Coffee sounds nice.” Ever so slightly, his mouth curved into a hopeful smile. Fiddleford grinned.

“Great. I’ll see ya tomorrow at noon then! Enjoy your phone call with your Ma!” Fiddleford said, turning to head back to his apartment and raising a hand to wave bye to the man. The man waved back, almost hesitantly.

“See ya then!” he called back.

Fiddleford turned fully now, hurrying back to his apartment to get out of the cold, a small smile on his mouth. He could hear the door to the payphone opening as the man let himself inside, and again a few moments later as the door closed. Following the path back to the apartment, Fiddleford noticed that in the short time he had used the payphone, snow had covered the path in a thin layer. His footsteps crunched ever so softly as he climbed the steps leading to his apartments front door before letting himself in. Following down the hallway that led to his tiny apartment, he took his keys out to let himself in.

Unsurprisingly, he found his roommate still at the desk, hunched over as his eyes darted across the textbook he was reading.

“Howdy, Stanford!” he greeted his roommate, who was so wrapped up in his readings that he didn’t hear his roommate. Rolling his eyes with a playful smile, Fiddleford approached his roommate, and leaned his head down to be about level with Ford’s head. He let out a yell which was soon joined by his roommates own shocked yell.

Spinning around to look at Fiddleford with wide, frightened eyes, Fiddleford burst into laughter. His roommate didn’t seem nearly as pleased, not that Fiddleford was all that surprised.

“Ya know, Stanford, I could have been a burglar or a murderer or somethin’ and you wouldn’t have even noticed.”

Ford rolled his eyes, leaning his arm across the back of his chair. “I would have noticed! They would have had to break the door down.”

Fiddleford laughed, “Yeah, somehow I’m not confident that you’d notice that.” This earned a stubborn glare from his roommate.

Playfully grinning back, Fiddleford returned to his desk where his book had been left open for him.

“Anyway, how was your ma?” His roommate asked, turning back to his own book.

Grinning, Fiddleford responded, “She’s good. She’s really excited t’ meet ya! Oh! And I met a guy that looks a bit like ya if ya had long hair.”

“Hmmmm…. I’m inspired. Maybe I’ll grow out my hair. Think that’ll look good on me.” Ford teased, carding his six fingered hand through his wild, mouse-brown hair.

Cocking an eyebrow at him, Fiddleford chuckled curtly, “Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’d suit you.” He paused for a few minutes, deciding to mention his plans for the next day. It wasn’t like he thought the man would do something, but just in case, at least Ford would know where he was, “I’m gettin’ coffee with the guy tomorrow. I dunno what his deal is, but he looks like he doesn’t have much, so I figure a cup of coffee and my old winter coat will help ‘im out a bit.”

By this point, Ford seemed to be wrapped up in his textbook. For a moment, Fiddleford thought he hadn’t heard him and was about to repeat himself when Ford replied, “Just be careful, alright? He’s probably not well off for a reason.”

Pressing his lips together to keep himself from retorting something back, Fiddleford merely hummed. He didn’t agree with Ford’s sentiment, but he knew they were both too tired with too much studying to do to engage in an argument. He was finding it hard to concentrate on his classwork with that man in his thoughts. He was probably done or wrapping up the phone call with his mother. He hoped it went well; if his ma was anything like Fiddlefords, it’s always good to have one person like that in your corner. It soothed Fiddleford to think that the stranger wasn’t entirely alone. He might not have any clue about this man’s life, but it wasn’t hard to deduce that if he was on his own, or, god forbid, living out of his car, he most likely didn’t have many friends or acquaintances.

Fiddleford could only hope that the man wasn’t just passing through. If he was planning on staying for a while, Fiddleford wouldn’t mind getting to know the man. He wanted to know more about this mysterious drifter who he could see had a kind, if not worn heart. The following afternoon could not come fast enough.

With this thought in mind, he marked his place on the book and told Ford that he was taking a shower and heading to bed, and that he should think about doing the same. Ford didn’t respond, too wrapped up in his studying, not that Fiddleford actually expected an answer. He’d come out again after his shower to remind him.

As he climbed into bed several minutes later, it didn’t take long for the exhaustion to catch up to him, and within moments, he was deep in sleep.


	2. Let the River In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend Lia (snugsnake) for proofreading this chapter for me! <3 Next chapter picks up the action more, I swear. Just gotta get all those pesky introductions out of the way. As always, happy reading and let me know what you think!

_But now you’re drifting away_

_Now you’re floating along_

_And soon you’ll disappear_

Stanley didn’t get that much sleep that night, more or less figuratively tossing and turning seeing as the front seat of the Stanleymobile didn’t leave much room for Stan to move around. His mind played through that prior evenings events over and over in his head, looking for any sort of excuse to not go to the cafe the next day.

It wasn’t like no one ever showed him kindness over the years. It just happened to be few and far in between. Old people tended to be the most generous. They’d hand him a few bucks with well wishes on their tongues, or sometimes would see him by his car, then come back a bit later with a warm meal for him.

However, these encounters made up just a small percentage of his interactions with others. Usually, they’d at least cast a harsh, disgusted look his way that he couldn’t help but compare to the looks his father (or even Stanford) would give him if only they could see him now. Shivering at the thought, he sighed and glanced out the window at the snow still drifting down from the sky. He couldn’t afford the gas to keep his car running all night, so it was downright freezing inside the Stanley mobile.

He sighed again. He couldn’t afford to pass up the chance for a free winter coat. Maybe that was all some cruel lie, that after meeting him at this coffee shop, the college student would return back to his friends, laughing at the joke he just played.

Yet a small voice in the back of his head nagged that the man didn’t seem capable of such things. Of course, appearances could be deceiving, and people could lie (Stan knew this better than anyone), but if Stanley was confident of one thing, it was of his ability to read people. The man seemed nothing but kind and generous. Hell, it was close to Christmas, maybe he had chosen for Stan to be his charity case.

That thought alone brought him little comfort. He never wanted to be anyone’s charity case, no matter how much he might need it.

‘Think of getting a coat and coffee this guy as stealing’, he told himself, ‘It’s for free so what’s the difference? It’s not like you can afford to pass an opportunity like this just because you’re nervous. What’s the worst he can do?’

Stanley mulled that thought over in his head. What could the guy do? He was so tiny, it wasn’t like he’d be able to actually fight him. The worst would be this was just one big joke with Stan as the punch liner. Considering how unlikely that was, Stan was willing to take that chance.

The next morning, he was up rather early considering he had been too cold and too busy wrangling his thoughts to get much sleep. The guy had said to meet him at the coffee shop in the afternoon, so Stan had several hours to blow before he needed to be there. That gave him just enough time to explore the town.

He couldn’t recall the name of the town, having driven past the old, dingy sign late at night. It hadn’t been his plan to stay this long considering he only needed to find a payphone and find a place to rest for the night, but it had been obvious this was a college town.

He always did fairly well in college towns. Or at least he did for a while, until he inevitably got chased out of town, or in some extreme cases, banned from the state. He still sold his silly little inventions like he did soon after he had gotten kicked out, but he realized there was a whole other untapped market in college towns, one that he wasn’t proud of but hey, money was money.

Seeing as he had enough gas in his tank to afford driving around rather than having to brave the frigid weather, he backed out of his parking spot and left the parking lot to coast through the town. Scanning the shops along the street, he was pleased for find that, like most college towns, there was a fair amount of bars lining the street. In the day hours, the bars had tables where patrons could eat and enjoy a drink at the bar, but Stan knew that by night, the bars would be a hotspot for college students itching to forget the stress of their studies by getting shit faced.

Mentally noting a few bars that looked rather populated, Stan planned to return that night.

When he had driven to the edge of the town where the shops were fewer in between, instead replaced by town houses, he pulled over, mulling what he would do next. He had only wasted about maybe fifteen minutes. He still had a lengthy amount of time until he had to go to the cafe.

Fingers rhythmically tapping along the steering wheel, he racked his brain. He supposed he could park the car and go into some of the bars and see if there was a bouncer he could make an arrangement with, but it was likely the bouncers were only there during the nights, so that was out. Glancing in his back seat, he noted the surplus amount of Stan Co. products that seemed to have made their home in his back seat. Stan Vacs, Total Shams, and Rip Offs were some of the more numerous. He’d been trying to clear out his inventory, so to say, for the past few years now, but as time stretched on, it got harder and harder as word of his shitty products got around.

But now he was several states further away from where he normally set up shop (metaphorically speaking). It was unlikely these people have heard of Stan Co., or any of his various alias’ that he had taken up over the years. Plus the weather was in his favour for once. People could sympathize with some poor bastard trying to make a living out in the cold winter weather. Deciding to stop in a gas station, he got the key for the bathroom and nubbed a razor from their small shelf of home supplies before closing himself in the dingy bathroom and locking the door.

Looking in the mirror caused him to wrinkle his nose at the sight of him. He quickly got to work shaving off the stubble he’d been accumulating and used water from the sink to wash his hair and face. There wasn’t much he could do about the bags hanging from his eyes, unfortunately. When he was content enough with his appearance, he flushed the toilet for good measure and returned to his car. He rooted through the trunk where he kept his good, professional looking clothes safely stored. Quickly changing into his suit, he straightened the bow tie in the drivers mirror before taking a deep breath, steeling himself to face the townsfolk.

He spent the better of the rest of the morning doing this. Most people slammed the door back in his face, and even more came up with some polite excuse to not buy his products, but he managed to get a few people to bite. He was walking back to his car when he glanced at the worn watch he had stolen years ago and cursed. He was going to be late!

He rushed back to his car and stuffed the rest of his inventions back into the back seat before quickly changing out of his suit and back into the same t-shirt and worn jacket he had worn last night. Tires screeching as he pressed down on the gas pedal, he whipped around and made his way back to the parking lot where he had spent the night.

He turned down the street in the opposite direction that he had seen the man take when he returned home and scanned the shop signs for a coffee shop. Sure enough, he found it a few shops down and walked in.

Scanning the people occupying tables, he quickly found the man’s mop of sandy blonde hair hunched over a textbook, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

He was stabbed with a brief feeling of endearment, as well as betrayal, recalling seeing that exact expression on his brother on many occasions throughout their school life. He pushed that idea from his head and forced himself to stride over to the man. Once he got close, he looked up and broke into a grin, one that confused Stan.

“There ya are!” he exclaimed, “I thought ya weren’t gonna show for a moment there, but I’m glad t’ see ya!”

“Heh, sorry about that.” Stan replied tentatively, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, “I got a bit lost on the way here. Still don’t really know the town all that well.”

He felt bad lying to this guy, but he just couldn’t help himself. The less this guy actually knew about him, the better.

“No worries. Come on, let's get ya a drink t’ warm ya up.” The man motioned for him to follow him as he led him to the counter. He ordered a drink and pastry for himself and stepped aside so Stan could order something for himself.

He glanced at the chalkboard behind the barista, and decided on a cup of coffee with cream and sugar. Stan stepped back out of the way for the man to pay when the man gave him a confused look.

“Don’t ya want a pastry?” he asked, as if it were some unspoken rule to get a pastry with his coffee. Stan hesitated, but as his gaze lowered to the glass case full of delectable pastries, his mouth watered too much to say no.

“I’ll get a cinnamon bun.” he told the barista, shooting a timid but thankful glance towards the man’s way.

He only grinned back and handed a few bills over to the barista.

“So, whatcha in town for?” the man asked as the pair waited for the barista to retrieve their pastries from behind the class case.

“Oh, uh…” Stan mumbled, glad when the barista straightened back up, offering their pastries. They took it and moved to the side to wait for their coffees. “I’m a traveling salesman.”

“No way!” the man exclaimed, and Stan was sure that he wasn’t actually as excited as he led on, “So you must have traveled all over the country, huh?”

Stan laughed awkwardly, “Uh, yeah, I guess you could say that. I’ve been outside of the country as well.” This part wasn’t a lie, but if Stan knew anything, it helped to sprinkle a bit of truth into his lies.

“What did ya say your name was?” The man asked as the barista handed him his cup of coffee.

Hesitating, Stan replied, “Uh.. it’s Sam. Samuel Pence.”

The man grinned and set his coffee on the counter to offer a hand to Stan. “It’s a pleasure to meet ya Sam. The names Fiddleford McGucket.”

Stan reached a hand out to shake his, but his gaze snapped up when the man mentioned his own name. Fiddleford McGucket? Yeesh that was a mouthful. Unable to help himself, a bellowing laugh tumbled from his lips.

“That’s quite a mouthful you got there. I’m just gonna call ya Fidds, alright? There’s no way I’m going to remember all of that.”

Fiddleford laughed in good nature and nodded. “Alright Sam. Fidds it is then.” The barista finally came over with Stan’s coffee and the two of them sat back at the table Fiddleford had been occupying previously.

As he sat down at the table with his coffee in one hand, and cinnamon bun in the other, his stomach gave a loud rumble. He hadn’t realized quite how hungry he was until the food was right under his nose. With the voration of a wild animal, he devoured the cinnamon bun, relishing in the sweet taste of the cinnamon and icing. He had been so wrapped up, that he hadn’t noticed Fiddleford’s look of sympathy as he watched this strange man woof down his food.

Leaning back in his chair, a smile, a genuine smile, tugged at Stan’s lips, that when his gaze finally met Fiddlefords, the other man couldn’t help but mirror it back at him, any trace of sympathy gone.

“I respect a man that enjoys sweets,” He joked, “If ya liked that, you should really try some of my ma’s homemade cinnamon buns.” he replied fondly. His eyes briefly widened as if recalling something, “Speaking of which, how was your mother?”

Stan’s smile didn’t disappear, but that forced strain had returned, “Oh she’s good.” he replied almost too quickly. Sure, his mother was good, but when he was late to call her, she had fretted and worried over him, shooting question after question at him. Are you eating? Are you safe? Are you warm? Have you talked to Stanford? His ma always asked the same tirade of questions, and Stan always answered with the same response. Yes, ma. I’m safe, I’m warm. You know I haven’t talked to Stanford. His mother was a pathological liar by trade, and he knew she could tell when he was lying, but she never pushed the subject unless he was late to call her.

“Are ya going home for Christmas?” Fiddleford asked before raising his cup of coffee to his lips.

“Heh, about that,” he replied, “My family is Jewish so we don’t celebrate Christmas, but no, I’m not going home for the holidays.”

“Not going home for the holidays?” Fiddleford replied, shocked as if he couldn’t imagine why someone wouldn’t go home for the holidays. Someone like him probably had a perfect, Hallmark family.

Stan shrugged, “Eh, yeah. Too busy here, ya know? Gotta make a livin’ somehow.” he replied. As if to deter any other further comments, he added, “Plus I don’t really got any family besides her, and she already has plans for the holiday. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Fiddleford opened his mouth as if to reply but closed it, probably thinking better of it. He took another sip of his coffee, so Stan mirrored him, feeling the warm liquid trickle down his throat and warm him.

“Well, I know ya don’t celebrate Christmas, but how about I bring ya some of my Ma’s famous cinnamon buns that I was tellin’ ya about?” he offered, grinning as if he wasn’t about to take no for an answer, “You’re going to be in town for a while, right?”

Stan bit his lip. He really hadn’t been planning on it. He was just planning on passing through until he got to a bigger city, one that was hopefully further down south where it was warmer. Then again, when was the last time someone had actually wanted him around? This guy seemed to genuinely enjoy having him around, and wasn’t treating him like some charity case (even if he was) he could feel good about when he had returned to the warmth of his home. Still, to stay in town just for one person was a big deal.

“Oh come on! Just stay a bit! I can show ya around town if that’s what you’re worried about.” He playfully pouted, giving Stan the most pitiful pair of puppy dog eyes he’d ever seen.

Dammit. Maybe this guy was a better conman than he was.

“Fine, fine, I’ll stay for a bit.” Stan agreed, heaving a dramatic sigh, “You’re the youngest kid, aren’t ya?

Fiddleford’s eyes widened and looked at Stan with a shocked expression, “Yes, I am! How’d ya know?” It was unsaid, but Stan knew he was thinking ‘Are ya a psychic?”

Stan laughed, thinking his Ma would be proud to hear some poor kid thinks he’s a psychic, “‘Cause youngest kids always know just what to say, and how much puppy dog eyes to give to get what they want.”

Fiddleford gave a laugh, “So you’re an older brother then, huh?”

Stan scoffed and shook his head, “No, no. I’m a middle child; even worse.” he said, genuinely laughing. Sure, Ford was only older by a couple minutes, but he wasn’t quite ready to bring up his twin quite yet.

The two shared in their quiet laughter. Briefly, Stan wondered how he could have possibly thought this man was going to make a joke out of him. It was still so early to say so, but it had been so long since he had a friend, and Stan forgot what it had been like to just enjoy someone’s company.

The two idly chatted for a bit, merely enjoying the company of one another. Stanley gradually relaxed around the other man’s company. His strained, salesman smile he usually wore around other people gave way to a genuine smile as the southerner cracked jokes. He was feeling freer than he had in a long time. The impending stress that usually sat upon his shoulders was momentarily forgotten in favor of simply enjoying the company of the other man.

Unfortunately, Fiddleford glanced at his watch and cursed-- or well, it might have been a curse in the south. Where did this guy even come up with something like sugar honey iced tea?

“I’m so sorry, Sam, I have to go! I totally forgot I have a class in a few minutes.” He replied, hastily packing up his belongings into a bag that Stan hadn’t noticed was hanging off his chair.

He couldn’t help but feel disappointed, not that he showed this. “Is that why you were readin’ when I came in?” Stan asked, gesturing to the textbook that Fiddleford was packing up. The southerner nodded. “Yes, finals week is comin’ up, so I’ve been scuttlin’ around trying to get everythin’ done.”

Stan only nodded, taking a sip of his coffee as he watched the man finally pull something out of the bag. “Oh! Here’s that jacket I promised ya! Thank ya again for takin’ it off my hands!”

Stan reached out and took the jacket from him. It sure was a thick ass jacket. The southern man really must not be acclimated to the colder winters. Other than a slight scuff on the sleeve, it was practically spotless.

As if Fiddleford could read his mind, he added, “Sorry about the sleeve. I’m afraid one of my mares bit it.” he replied.

Wait what? Mares? “You have horses?” Stan asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Fiddleford chuckles, “Back at home, yes. My family has a bunch of farm animals. We do live on a farm after all.”

Damn, so this man really was a farm boy. He should have guessed. He might be small, but his hands had the appearance of someone who could handle hard work. Stan shrugged the coat on over his jacket, smiling at how well it fit despite appearing to be heavier than the twig of a man.

“Oh good! It fits just like a glove.” Fiddleford responded. He set his coffee cup down and reached out. Stan couldn’t help but flinch, not used to people reaching towards him unless they had ill intentions. However, as the man's hands turned the coat collar down until it was laying neatly, he felt his cheeks redden.

To his relief, the man didn’t acknowledge his flinch. “There ya go. It looks mighty fine on ya, Sam.”

Stan’s cheeks reddened even more, if that were even possible. He rubbed the back of his neck, not used to such kind words. “Hey, how about I walk ya to class? It’s the least I can do for you considering everything you’ve done for me.”

Fiddleford didn’t even hesitate. In fact, he seemed excited, and when was the last time someone had been excited to be around Stan? “Alright. It’s in a buildin’ not too far from here.” he replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Stan nodded and stood up, coffee cup in hand. He and Fiddleford exited the coffee shop and Stan fell into step beside Fiddleford as the southern man led him towards his class.

“So, what are ya studyin’ anyway?” Stan asked curiously.

His jaw dropped as the man responded, telling him that he was studying mechanical engineering.

“Ain’t that hard?” Stan asked. He didn't know much about college. Hell, he hadn’t even graduated high school, but he wasn’t dumb enough to not know what was generally considered hard to even people who were smart.

Fiddleford laughed shyly. “I guess so,” he replied modestly, “I’ve got a bit of an advantage though. Growin’ up on the farm as a youngin’, I was always fixin’ or improvin’ on the farm equipment even from a young age. Not to mention I used to build all sorts of silly robots to prank my siblin’s.” He chuckled at fond memories, a distant look briefly clouding his bright blue eyes.

Stan scoffed, shaking his head at the man, “You know, I gotta hear some of these stories.” he replied, laughing. Having pulled plenty of pranks himself as a kid, he could relate to pranking siblings, only he hadn’t been smart enough to actually build an entire robot to do it for him.

By now, they were standing outside a fairly large building. Students with backpacks slung over their shoulders walked around them, each heading to their own destinations. Fiddleford stopped and turned to Stan, chuckles tumbling from his lips.

“Somethin’ tells me you have some stories on your own, so why don’t we swap some when I show ya around town?” Fiddleford asked. Damn, this guy was good. Yet somehow, the thought of seeing this strange yet kind man again gave Stan a fluttery feeling in his gut that he just told himself was him being happy to finally have someone that he could maybe call a friend.

“Yeah, ok,” he replied.

Fiddleford grinned and patted Stan’s shoulder amicably, “Great! Since I won’t have classes tomorrow seein’ as it’s a Saturday, how abouts your and me meetup by the cafe again, get some hot chocolate before we hit the town? How’s noon sound?”

Stan thought for a moment. Tomorrow at noon gave him plenty of time to hit the bars that night and be ready by the next afternoon. He nodded, “Noon tomorrow it is!”

Grin ever present, Fiddleford nodded. “It’s a date then! See ya then, Sam!” He turned away to head into a building, raising his hand to wave just as he had the night prior by the pay phone. Stan waved back and turned to walk back to his car.

He hadn’t gotten back to the coffee shop when Fiddleford’s words rang back in his head. ‘It’s a date’. He halted in the middle of the store front, quizzical look on his face. He couldn’t really mean--- no, he scoffed to himself. It was just an expression. Fiddleford was just a kind southern man. Those people had all sorts of weird sayings for things. He found it hard to believe that someone like Fiddleford would even want to be friends with someone like him, let alone anything else.

Shrugging his jacket closer to him, grateful to finally have some defense against the cold winter air, he resumed his walk back to his car, pushing the thought from his head as he instead focused on his plans for that night. Luckily Fiddleford didn’t seem like the type to frequent bars; Stan didn’t want the man to know what he did to put food on the table, so to say. He couldn’t imagine he’d be too happy if he knew, and didn’t want him to know that he was not merely some simple yet troubled traveling salesman. He couldn’t imagine that Fiddleford would want him to stick around if he knew the truth about ‘Sam Pence’.


	3. Sleep Walking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Please check out the warnings for this chapter. It might spoil some of it, but be safe! Also, there’s some mention of prices in this chapter, and considering it’s around 1970 in this fic, I converted the price to match how much it might have been in the 70’s. I’m not entirely knowledgeable on how stuff like this works or is priced for that matter, so keep that in mind. Happy reading!
> 
> Warning: sex work  
> Negative views of sex work  
> Explicit sexual acts

_I got a picture on the mantle piece_   
_Of the way that I thought that we’d end up_   
_But this shows no resemblance to that_

When night finally fell, the students emerged from their dorms and apartments, donned in their best bar clothes. Stan envied them in a way. He wished he could be so carefree and able to put his worries out of his head in favor of having a good time with friends. But life had not dealt that hand to him, and instead of finding himself joining them, Stan would take advantage of them.

It was around 9:30 as Stan approached one of the bars he had picked out that previous morning. As he anticipated, there was a bouncer by the window. For years, he had needed a fake ID to get in, and while he still used a fake ID to keep his real name concealed, he had turned 21 last summer and was technically legally allowed into the bars now.

As he approached the large, intimidating bouncer, he flashed his ID and a grin and the man merely nodded and stoically stepped aside to allow him entry. This man was used to college kids who wanted to drink, dance, and find someone to work out their stress with. However, this was not Stan’s first time, and he wasn’t the bars average patron. He stepped closer to the bouncer and whispered under his breath, wanting to work out a deal with him. The bouncer glanced down at him, as if scrutinizing him. Luckily, with Fiddleford’s new coat on, he didn’t look nearly as seedy as he had with only a warn t-shirt and stained jacket. He gruffly nodded and motioned to another man standing just inside by the door to come over. The initial man whispered something to this new man, who also took a look at Stan before nodding and motioning for Stan to follow him.

He hadn’t noticed the tension in his shoulders until he breathed a sigh of relief, glad that this first bar was so far working out well. The man led him through the mostly empty dance floor, though the music was still loud and the lights flashed in beat with the music. It was dark in there and apart from a few people by the bars getting drinks, it was empty.

Stan understood college bars well by this point. It wasn’t until around 10 that people really started to fill the place, and by 11 it was packed, sweaty bodies rubbing and brushing against others as they danced their cares away. Stan usually preferred to get before the crowd so that he could have time to set up shop, get comfortable (i.e. prepare himself) and wait for the first customers.

The man led him past the dance floor and down a thin hallway to where the bathrooms were located. He opened the door and wordlessly pointed inside. Stan had to practically squeeze past the man to get inside, seeing as the large man didn’t leave much space for him to get through.

Once inside the bathroom, Stan turned towards the bouncer again, waiting to hear the terms of the agreement. “You can charge whatever you want, but at the end of the night, the bar gets 40% of your earnings.”

The man said it as a matter of fact and Stan understood that there was no room for negotiations. 40% was a steep price, but considering he usually made a fair amount of money, he’d let it slide. Not to mention he had his ways of pocketing more than what he was technically ‘supposed’ to.

At Stan’s nod, the man merely eyed him one more time before letting the door close. Now alone in the bathroom, Stan looked in the mirror. Luckily, most of the ‘customers’ wouldn’t see his face seeing as most of the people coming to him were just wanting to get off quickly after an unsuccessful night of chasing ladies. However, there usually were a few that weren’t shy. They wanted the full deal, so with this in mind, he made sure he at least didn’t look like complete shit (luckily, he had already shaved and washed his hair that morning for Fid-- nope, he wasn’t going to think of him here.)

It wasn’t hard to find the stall that was meant for him. It had a mark on the door and the wall that bordered another stall had a spherical hole cut into it. He let himself in and after shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the knob on the door, he turned back around. Resigning himself to wait for the first person, he closed the lid and sat on the toilet, idly twiddling his thumbs.

This part was always the worse. When the night picked up in pace, he didn’t have time to think. He just had to focus on the money he was going to make, but now that it was still early, he had plenty of time for his mind to race, wondering how he had come to this.

Making millions hadn’t seemed so hard at first. He’d been practically bursting with ideas after he had been kicked out, not to mention he’d still had the hopes and ignorance of a man who hadn’t been beaten down and trodden upon. Now nearly four years later, all of his prior ideas had one by one turned out to be dead ends. He had learned that the world wasn’t a kind place to people like him, and the hope that one day he’d earn millions so he could go back home was still stubbornly kicking, but he knew realistically that he was never going to achieve it.

Still, what else was he supposed to do? Having that goal was one of the few things that kept him going, no matter how much life threw at him. As more of his plans turned out to be busts, he steadily got more and more involved with seedy people with dangerous offers. He was a desperate man with a hopeless dream so he couldn’t turn down the offers for long.

Those offers soon found him in all sorts of dangerous situations. Colombian jungles, smuggling, selling guns, gangs, you name it, Stan’s done it. Selling himself had, oddly enough, come as a last resort. He had grown weary of always being on the run from people he owed debts to, tired of always looking over his shoulder. Selling himself had turned out to be easier than he had thought. He had lost his sense of modesty and pride a long time ago, and once that was out of the way, he had no qualms making a quick buck by offering services to desperate losers. Of course, this was true most of the time. He tried not to think of it in the daylight hours. He had cash in his pocket for gas and occasionally food, so he just blocked out how he got that money. But as he sits on the toilet seat, waiting for the first john, his mind couldn’t help but travel down the same self-deprecating path every time.

No, this was not his first time. It was far from it, but that didn’t mean it got easier.

Knowing how the night would inevitably end up, he took a moment to prepare himself. He had brought some lube in a tiny container from his car, and only needed a few moments to work himself open before sliding his pants back on.

Finally, the door creaked as someone came in. Stan watched the bottom of the door as footsteps entered into the small bathroom. He couldn’t decipher whether or not he wanted the feet to stop by his door or keep going, so when the footsteps stopped outside his door and knocked on the stall, he was indifferent.

“How much?” the man asked, voice quivering. Stan couldn’t help but feel a mixture of sympathy and relief, the later being the dominant of the two. The guy was a newbie. They had a tendency to over pay, as well as be more gentle.

“$10 for a blow job, $30 to fuck me,” Stan replied back, matter of fact. Hearing the person behind the door sputter, he didn’t have to see him to know what expression he had.

“Uh---I’ll just,” He must not have been able to get himself to voice his desires but instead offered a ten dollar bill under the door. Stan took it, folded it and stashed it away in his shoe.

“Alright, in this stall.” Stan replied, reaching his hand over the wall blocking off his stall from the next and pointed into the neighboring stall. He heard the man shuffle his feet before closing and locking the door behind him.

“What do I d-- oh.” the man replied, apparently just noticing the hole between the stalls. Letting out an exhale, Stan could hear the sound of a zipper and the soft ruffle of clothing before the john inserted his cock into the hole. It took all of his self-restraight to not sigh. The one downside of newbies was that they had a tendency to be loud and come fast. That made the job easier on him, but could also be frustrating after a while.

Stan turned on the toilet seat, finally looking at the poor john. He could see his shoes under the wall and knew from their slight tremble that he was nervous. He wasn’t hard, not that Stan expected him to be, but Stan would fix that.

Hands cupping as close to the base as the wall would allow, he guided the man's cock into his open mouth. After that initial movement, he moved as if on autopilot. He barely thought of what he was doing anymore, now way more practiced then he would like to admit. Soon the sound of Stan’s slurps (hearing them always made himself feel even worse about selling himself) was chorused by the other man's loud, poorly constrained moans. He knew that the other movement he was hearing was the man moving against the wall, maybe gripping the roof of it desperately, and that thought at least gave Stan some small sense of pride that he could at least do this well.

The man was hard now, which made Stan’s job easier. At this point, he lost himself again, focusing on his task. In moments like these, time seemed to stretch on, making the task more arduous. Luckily for him, the man was obviously not used to this kind of sensation, and the sound of his strangled moan broke Stan’s train of thought, warning him not a moment too soon as the man came, spurting cum into Stan’s mouth. Milking the man through his orgasm, his breathy gasps only increased until Stan retracted his mouth with a ‘pop’. When it came to his first ‘customer’, he always made sure to do especially well, seeing as the man might possibly spread the word to other potential customers. Stan shuttered silently as he swallowed. The guy on the other side was still panting, but was already tucking himself back into his pants.

“Uh.. thanks.” The john replied hesitantly, obviously not knowing what or if there was protocol for this kind of thing.

“Sure thing,” Stan grunted out, voice harsher now from the abrasions against the walls of his throat.

The man left and soon enough the stream of customers increased. Stan’s night followed pretty much in the same way that first man had. College kids were green. Many of them just wanted to get off, and the alcohol in their system allowed them to make the bad decision to fork over their money to some faceless man on the other side of the bathroom stall. Stan’s jaw got more and more sore as the night went on, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He reminded himself of the steadily growing wad of cash he was stuffing into his shoes and he forgot about the jaw pain.

A few hours later, the night was finally winding down. Customers were still coming in, but the amount had decreased. Stan wiped his sleeve across his jaw, wiping away what was left of his saliva and his latest customers cum when he heard a heavier set of footsteps come into the room.

There was another knock at the door, “How much?” the voice asked, voice much deeper than any of the others so far. Somehow it made Stan’s gut coil in apprehension. He had been able to get off mostly lucky; newbys only wanted to have their cock sucked. This guy didn’t sound like no newby.

He repeated his mantra, “$10 for a blow job, $30 to fuck me.”

Waiting with bated breath, his gut sunk as the man offered a twenty dollar bill under the stall door. Gulping, Stan silently took a deep inhale to steady himself. He took the bill, pocketed and unlocked the door, revealing a tall, burly man. He certainly wasn’t no college kid. Word that he was there must have gotten around town. The man's lips curled into a smirk.

“Well aren’t you just a cute little bitch.” he replied, closing the door behind him. Thank God he was practiced enough to not let his apprehension show through. Instead, his eyes lowered, looking up at the man with lustful, lidded eyes.

The mans hands moved up, grasping his jaw tightly and angling it up towards his face more as his other hand moved to undo his fly. “Drop em, whore.”

His hands around his jaw dropped in favor of tugging his pants down enough so his dick could be pulled out. His expressionless gaze continued to watch as Stan dropped his pants, meanwhile his hand curled around his cock, pumping himself until he was erect. Stan’s gaze dropped to the man's dick and gulped. He was going to be sore after this.

“Turn around,” The man demanded. Stan mentally was glad that he had taken the time to prepare himself whilst waiting for customers earlier in the night. He could only help that he was still ready. He did as the man said and turned around. Before he had time to bend down, the man’s hand tangled in his hair and thrust him forward until he was practically gripping the toilet. Stan’s hands came to grip the sides of the bowl, trying not to think about how dirty this bars bathroom was.

The man’s cock brushed up against his hole, and Stan couldn’t help himself as he let out a needy moan. It was times like this where he didn’t entirely hate what he did. He pressed back towards the man ever so slightly, silently begging him. This earned a harsh laugh.

“You desperate already, slut?” he said, guiding his dick to teasingly circle his hole, earning another whine from Stan, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re yelling by the time I’m done with you.”

With that promise on his lips, he thrusted into Stan, fast and hard, forcing his way into Stan’s hole until he bottomed out. Stan jerked forward, closer to the toilet bowl with a gasp at the strength of the man’s thrust. He scrambled for purchase on the bowl as the man’s hands gripped his hips like vices and began pounding into him, sliding almost all the way out before thrusting back in. Stan gasped loudly, each thrust forcing him to scramble for purchase on the toilet.

The erotic sounds of their coupling filled the empty bathroom, Stan’s needy gasps, and the man's own gruff grunts. He grabbed a fistful of Stan’s long hair and tugged it, forcing Stan’s head to angle backwards, exposing his neck as the man continued to pound into his hole. By this point, Stan was also hard himself, and his neglected dick was dripping with need.

“Let me hear you, whore.” The man whispered as he leaned close. His breath ghosted over Stan’s earlobe and he couldn’t hold back any more. Each thrust was punctuated by a loud moan. Stan’s hand moved towards his cock, but the man stilled his hand.

“You gotta beg for it.” he growled back. Stan wasted no time. He begged and pleaded with the stranger, begging for him to be able to touch himself, he needed it so bad. Deciding he was pleased by this, he released his hand. Stan instantly curled his hand around his cock, stroking in time to the man’s thrusts, his moans growing louder. As the man continued to fuck into his hole, Stan’s thoughts drifted, imagining someone else behind him, someone a lot smaller and whos voice had a southern twang to it. He imagined this man would be more sensual, whispering words of how good he was, how hot he was into his ears. As if he could hear those words, he let out a particularly loud moan.

Within a few moments, the mans thrusts sped up, losing its normal rhythm. Stan knew he was going to cum soon, so the hand on his cock sped up.

With one, final deep thrust, the man came deep within Stan with a loud grunt. He continued to move though, subtly milking himself as he rode out his orgasm. Stan could feel the sensation of the warm cum filling him and with a few more strokes, came as well, shooting ropes of cum across the closed toilet seat.

The two were still for a moment, just merely panting from the task. Finally, the man pulled out with a wet sound and grabbed some toilet paper to clean himself up. He tucked himself into his pants, and without a final word, turned and left, leaving Stan bent over the toilet, cum dripping from his hole.

After a few moments, he straightened up on shaky legs and retrieved some toilet paper to wipe up his own mess. He could tell he was going to be sore by the next day, but now that he was alone to himself, he thought back to just a few moments before.

Had he… had he really imagined that it was Fiddleford who had been fucking him? That imagining the sweet southern man fucking into him had made him moan louder than the actual man who had done so? He didn’t know what to make of the whole situation, his thoughts merely traveling around in circles wondering when did he start thinking of his new friend-- not even that, acquaintance-- in such a way? Surely if Fiddleford knew the truth about him, he wouldn’t want to even be associated with him.

His thoughts continued to swirl around in his head, until finally, the door opened. He half feared it would be another customer to add to his inner turmoil, but instead he heard the bouncers voice. “Bar’s closed.”

Stan sighed thankfully and stood up, wincing as he did so. He shrugged the jacket back on and unlocked the door. He came out to greet the bouncer, who looked at him with a face of disgust. Silently, he extended a hand, obviously expecting him to fork over the bars share of his profits. He pulled out his wad of cash, thankful that he had hidden a few bills in his coat pocket. He counted out the money before forking over the 40% (though in actuality, it was more like 25-30%) he owed the bar. The bouncer pocketed the cash and motioned to the door.

“Scram.”

Stan didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled out the door and back to the street, yet again thankful that he actually had a real winter coat to wear. It was even colder than it had been the following night. He quickly retreated to his car, parked in the familiar parking lot, to count his earnings. After pulling out all the cash from his jacket and shoes, he had close to around $300. It wasn’t a bad night, especially considering he only was fucked once. This should hopefully be able to buy him gas, food, and maybe even a motel room whilst he was here. Hell, maybe tomorrow, he’d treat Fiddleford to a cup of coffee if he was feeling generous enough.

He tucked the money into a safe place and leaned his car seat back, wincing as he leaned back down against the seat. Hopefully he wouldn’t still be too sore when he saw Fiddleford tomorrow.

He tried to ignore that he had been thinking about the kind man in such a way. He felt dirty. What he did was already dirty by most people's standards, but thinking about the man who had shown him more kindness in a day then he had received in the past four years? It made him feel lower than low.

Unable to help himself, and having masochistic tendencies when down, he pulled down the sun visor from the roof of his car, revealing the photo he had taped to it. Fingers gently traced the shapes of the worn images, looking at the smiling faces of two boys. They had been so innocent back then. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for breaking that damn machine, even if it hadn’t been intentional. If he hadn’t been such a fuck up, Ford would have never missed his shot to go to his dream school, and Stan would have never been kicked out of the house.

Distantly, Stan wondered what Ford was up to now. No doubt, he probably had been able to get into another school. His Ma tried to tell him about Ford sometimes on the phone, but Stan always tuned her out, not wanting to think about how he wasn’t apart of his brothers life anymore. He told himself that one day, he would make millions of dollars so he could make it up to his family and come home. He just-- he just needed to wait for a break.

He closed the visor with one last look at his twin and sighed. It was a good thing Stanford couldn’t see how low his brother had gotten. He doubted Stanford would even want to look at him if he knew what Stan had to do in order to survive. But luckily, Stanford would never find out. Once he made his millions and apologized to Ford, he’d never have to think about what he had to do ever again.

He could leave this all in the past; he just had to be patient and keep working towards his goal.


	4. Along the Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief reminder that since this is from Fiddleford’s perspective, he’ll be addressing Stan as Sam

_There, along the road, was a tiny home_   
_The yard held dead machines behind its fences_   
_Like they were its kids_   
_Broken down, but still worth a lot to someone_   
_It made me stop and grin_

“Who’d you say you were meeting with again?” Ford asked, looking up from his cluttered pages of notes he was somehow making sense of. He wore a confused expression on his face, and Fiddleford couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like Fiddleford hung out with too many people other than Ford, and this was the third day in a row he was seeing this strange man. Ford didn’t seem to trust the man, but he also has yet to meet him.

Fiddleford can’t decide if introducing the two of them was a good idea. Ford had a tendency to come off as rather blunt and harsh, especially given his already low opinion of Fiddleford’s new friend, and Sam had enough to deal with without adding his roommates judgement to the equation.

“His name is Sam,” Fiddleford replied, shrugging his jacket over his shoulders. “He’s actually a really nice guy. He’s staying in town for a bit, so I’m going to show him around a bit.”

Ford didn’t seem pacified. He eyed Fiddleford leerily. “Just be careful.” he replied before turning back to his notes, clicking the end of his pen repeatedly. Fiddleford appreciated the sentiment, but found that he trusted Sam. He had a rough exterior, obviously not used to someone showing him a bit of kindness, but underneath all of that, he had a big heart.

Fiddleford was determined to show the man that the world wasn’t as bad as it had previously shown him to be.

“I’ll see ya later, Stanford.” he called as he left the apartment. He didn’t wait for his roommate to respond, not that he thought he would. Once Ford was concentrated on his studies, he was so oblivious that it would take nothing short of a bomb to get his attention.

Following the hallway to the exit of the apartment, he followed the familiar path towards the cafe. No new snow had yet to fall, but the cold temperatures of the night before had ensured that the snow hadn’t melted. Briefly, Fiddleford hoped that Sam had been warm enough last night.

Stuffing his hands into his jacket, he quickly hurried along his way, and within a few minutes, found himself opening the door to the cafe. To his joy, Sam was already inside and waiting for him. He appeared to sit up a bit straighter as he caught sight of Fiddleford, raising a hand in a small, yet excited wave.

Fiddleford found it endearing that despite how much hardship this man must have faced, he still could be so excited to see him, even if a bit cautiously. He waved back and quickly joined Sam at the same table they had sat at the previous day.

“Afternoon, Sam.” Fiddleford greeted him.

“Hey Fiddlesticks.” Sam replied, satisfied smirk already creeping to his lips. Fiddleford scoffed for a moment in surprise.

“Fiddlesticks?” He asked, laugh tumbling from his lips before he could help himself. This earned a shrug from the man across from him.

“I’m tryin’ out some new nicknames. Fidds just seemed, hmm, lackluster?”

Fiddleford shook his head, still laughing, “It’s a new one, I’ll give ya that.” He paused for a moment as his laughing calmed down, “Say, how about we get out drinks and hit the streets?”

Sam nodded eagerly. The two walked to the counter side by side and ordered hot chocolates. Fiddleford reached in his pocket to retrieve his wallet when Sam put his hand over his.

“This one’s on me.” He simply replied, pulling out some money from his pockets and handing it to the barista before Fiddleford could protest.

“You didn’t have t’!” Fiddleford exclaims, not wanting the man to spend what little money he might have on him when Fiddleford could more easily afford it.

Sam just scoffed and waved a hand at him, “Relax, will ya?” he said. As if noticing that Fiddleford wasn’t going to let it drop, he added, “I had a good night last night, so I’ve finally got some extra cash. This is the least I could do since you gave me a coat and bought me coffee here yesterday.”

Fiddleford couldn’t say he agreed. He considered Sam a friend now, and Fiddleford always helped out a friend in a rough patch, and didn’t expect anything in return. However, Sam had always seemed somewhat uncomfortable by his gestures despite Fiddleford’s best efforts to word them as if Sam was doing him a favor, so he supposed paying for Fiddleford’s drink would make Sam feel more comfortable.

Deciding this to be the case, Fiddleford smiled warmly at the man and accepted the cup the barista handed to him. “Thank ya, Sam. That’s mighty kind of ya.”

A tinge of pink flushed Sam’s cheeks. He didn’t say a word but waved his hand again, as if to dismiss it.

Sam took the cup the barista was now offering him and the pair nodded together, silently agreeing to head outside. Once outside the cafe, Fiddleford glanced at Sam.

“You get to pick which direction we go.” he told him. Sam pondered for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face as he took a sip of the hot chocolate.

“Well, where do you like to go in town?” Sam asked curiously.

It was now Fiddleford’s choice to ponder for a moment before laughing a bit nervously. “It’s not anywhere excitin’, I’m afraid.”

This earned a shrug from Sam, “Makes no difference to me. Lead the way, Fiddlesticks.”

Shaking his head affectionately at the nickname, Fiddleford led him down a short ways to the school library. As the building came into view, so did the massive sign on the building’s sign reading ‘Backupsmore University Library’. Sam gazed up at the sign, a smile gracing his face that Fiddleford couldn’t quite decipher.

“The library, huh?” he asked. “I should have guessed. Ya just spend a lot of time in here studying or d’ya actually like readin’?”

Fiddleford laughed genuinely, “I mean, I do spend a lot of time studying in here, but if I’m not studying, I’m still usually in here browsing through the books. My roommate joins me sometimes. He’s a book worm just like me; I think that’s one of the reasons why we get along so well.”

Sam took this in, his gaze moving from the sign to Fiddleford’s face. Once Fiddleford was done speaking, he glanced back up to the building, allowing his smile to falter ever so slightly, revealing the sad, forlong expression he now wore. Fiddleford had to wonder if that's the expression he’d always wear if he wasn’t constantly forcing himself to smile.

“Heh, sounds just like my brother. He was always dragging me to the library when we were kids.” he said, still not meeting Fiddleford’s gaze as he spoke Fiddleford wanted to press him for more, wanting to know more about his new, mysterious friend, but judging by his expression and how guarded he usually was, he decided to not press right now. Sam would tell him when he was ready.

“That reminds me,” Fiddleford says, deciding to help ease Sam out of whatever memories he was thinking about in favor of something more pleasant, “I believe part of the plan for today was to swap stories of our childhood pranks?”

He motioned for Sam to follow him as he led him inside the library. Sam followed, looking a bit easy and obviously out of place as he followed Fiddleford through some of the numerous shelves. Luckily, Fiddleford’s favorite sections were usually devoid of people.

“I do remember hearing that.” Sam said, watching as Fiddleford sat down against one of the shelves, crouching down to sit across from him. Fiddleford’s eyes momentarily furrowed as he swore he saw the other man wince as he sat down.

“Well, the library is actually where I first learned how to make machines, which gave me the ideas for many of my pranks,” Fiddleford began, stretching his legs out and playfully resting one of his legs over Sam’s outstretched legs. Smirking, Sam shifted his other leg and rested it over Fiddleford’s other legs so that they were thoroughly tangled between the shelves.

“I found books about mechanics, robotics, kinematics, all sorts of things really. One of my favorite things to do was to check out an armful of books and lug ‘em to my favorite spot on the farm. There was this big, old tree on top of one of the hills that overlooked a lot of the pastures and farm land. It was really a beautiful spot. I’d curl up under the tree and spend most of my days readin’ through those books. Soon enough, I got the itch to try out what I was learnin’. I started with the broken farm equipment. There was a whole bunch of them lying around an old, forgotten part of the farm. I’ll never forget the look on my Pa’s face when he saw me drivin’ the old tractor he had left out there to rust. I think he thought I was some sort of witch until I explained what I’d done.

“After that, it was my job to fix all of the machinery ‘round the farm and in the house whenever it broke. It kept me pretty busy, but I also started keepin’ parts for myself so I could test out my skills more and build a whole robot from scratch. The first one hadn’t been impressive, but I learned a lot from it. The next robot I built was fairly simple, but lordy, it really freaked my poor siblin’s.

“It wasn’t much; it was remote controlled and could move pretty quietly, and when I pressed this one button, a rod would rotate. When my siblin’s were headin’ t’ bed, I’d peak around my door and wheel the robot behind their room door. The rod would rotate, and push the door shut as if a ghost did it. I had enough time before they got out of bed to check to get the robot back to my room. I did this every day for a while until finally my siblin’s started fussin’ about.”

Fiddleford was laughing heartily at this point, and Sam, who had previously been attentively listening to his story, joined him.

“They thought that a ghost was hauntin’ them!” Fiddleford laughed. “I got quite the talkin’ to from my Ma and Pa, but it was worth it to hear my siblin’s reactions every night.”

The pair shared a few moments, simply laughing together. Sam wiped his eyes as his laughter trickled down slowly.

“Yeesh, that’s like some evil scientist shit. Or maybe, uh evil mechanic? Yeah, probably that.” he said, “That puts all my pranks to shame.”

Intrigued, Fiddleford cocked an eyebrow, “What kind of pranks did you pull?”

Sam scoffed, “Nothin’ nearly as diabolical as that. My pranks typically didn’t have that much thought put into them. I was a pretty dumb kid, so I didn’t have the brain for that. On the bright side, I did play pranks fairly often. Simple things ya know, my brother and I used to prank call my Ma. She was a phoney phone psychic, ya see. We’d go to the payphone by the dock and call her line, saying some sort of lame line like “is your refrigerator running?” or something stupid like that. Other times, my brother and I used to glue pennies to the board walk and sit nearby to watch people struggle to pick it up. Course, once they heard a couple of young kids laughin’ their asses off, they usually walked away muttering some choice words under their breath.

“The one joke that I did from when I was real little up until I got kic-- uh, I Ieft to pursue sales, involved my brother. Ya see, he was a lot like you. He’d always be readin’ one book or another, or studying for a class, not that he needed to. He was a genius. But he’d get so wrapped up in his work that he’d often forget to eat, or shower, or sleep. When he did sleep, he was out like a light, which was when I went to work. Every time he’d finally pass out from staying up too long, I’d try to see how many things I could balance on him while he slept. Some nights, I’d try to get as many things on him as I could, other times I’d find the weirdest thing to balance on him. One time, I managed to set up a whole house of card using him and his desk as the base. He barely moved when he passed out so it was perfect! When he did wake up finally, the house of cards collapsed on him, covering him in cards.”

Sam was giggling as he told the story, and Fiddleford found it to be contagious. His laugh was gruff, but he seemed to laugh with his whole being; shoulders shaking, hand slapping his thighs, tilting his head back. Fiddleford found himself laughing just as hard, oddly enough feeling an odd sensation in his chest at the sound of Sam’s laughter.

Despite being hidden in between the bookshelves, their laughter must have gotten too loud, since a librarian trotted back to their spot, peering down their aisle with a stern look. “Shh!” she hissed, fingers to her lips. Like a couple of scolded kid, Sam and Fiddleford covered their mouths with their hands, trying to stifle their giggles. Being caught only made the situation funnier.

Once Fiddleford had enough of a hold on himself, he mentioned, between giggles, “Ya know, your brother sounds a lot like my roommate. I reckon I could stack a house of cards on him when he’s passed out on his desk from studying and he wouldn't even notice!”

Mischievous glint in Sam’s eyes, he peered forward at Fiddleford, “I bet ya five bucks ya can’t!”

He stuck out a calloused hand, lips leering in a smirk. Fiddleford clasped his own hand around Sam’s, ignoring that weird feeling in his chest again, “Five bucks says I can!”

“Oh, it’s on!” They shook their hands together once, confirming the bet.

Fiddleford glanced around the aisle, “Hey, how about we move on to somewhere else. I promise you there are more interesting places around town other than the library!”

Sam shrugged, “You lead the way, I’m followin’ you today, remember? So far, I am rather pleased to find out you’re not secretly some serial killer.”

Fiddleford scoffed and stood up, offering a hand to Sam, “What, you don’t think I’m cut out to be the Zodiac Killer?”

Sam clasped his hand again and tugged himself to his feet. Just as he had when he sat down, he winced. “You alright, Sam?” Fiddleford asked.

“Huh?” Sam asked, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He awkwardly laughed as he replied, “Yeah, of course! Why wouldn’t I be? This isn’t suspicious!”

Fiddleford had to disagree with that statement, but decided not to push it. “Alright, well, on to our next stop!”

The pair made their way out of the library and turned towards the main street of town. “This might be a bit more up to your speed.” Fiddleford said as he led down the street, “Since this is a college town, there’s a ton of bars that get crazy busy on the weekends. I’m not really a bar guy, but I overhear a lot of my classmates talking about what a good time they have.”

Sam, for some reason, seemed a bit uneasy around the bars, eyes darting every which way and looking like Ford did after his tenth cup of coffee.

Finally, his gaze looked back to Fiddleford and must have noticed him gazing at him curiously. He laughed, albeit a bit nervously. “I’m not really much of a bar guy,” he replied.

It occurred to Fiddleford that maybe he had a bad experience in a bar. He nodded and took Sam’s arm, steering him away from the bars, “Guess we have that in common,” he replied, “You already know the coffee shop, so there’s one more place I want to show you, but it’s a bit out of town.” He hesitated, now regretting his earlier joke about the Zodiac Killer, hoping that hadn’t given Sam any red flags, “Do ya trust me?”

Sure, asking point blank didn’t really do much to calm Sam’s nerves, but to Fiddleford’s relief, Sam didn’t hesitate when he firmly nodded his head.

Grin spreading across his lips, Fiddleford excitedly took Sam’s hands and began jogging down one of the alleys between the buildings.

“Woah-- hey--!” Sam exclaimed behind him, stumbling a bit before jogging to keep up. “Where are we going?”

Fiddleford briefly glanced behind him, “My secret place that I go if I need to relax.”

Seemingly satisfied by this answer, Sam silently followed Fiddleford, who once he was behind the buildings, slowed to a quick walk. The pair wove between houses, and soon enough, the buildings became more and more sparse before finally giving way to a thick forest. Fiddleford didn’t hesitate as he found a path into the trees. He released Sam’s hands, needing his own to bush branches out of their way and to help balance himself as he climbed a slope. He glanced behind him and saw that Sam was keeping pace, a curious expression on his face.

After a few more minutes of hiking, they emerged to a clearing on the top of the hill that overlooked the town below. Fiddleford could hear a soft gasp as Sam joined him on top of the hill.

“I come here when I’m stressed,” Fiddleford said, “It reminds me a lot of being at home sittin’ under that big tree. I usually just look at the people below and reflect”.

The pair stood in silence for a moment, peacefully taking in the view before them. Finally, Fiddleford glanced to Sam, “You smoke at all?” he asked.

Sam raised an eyebrow, “Do I smoke? How do you think I got this voice?” he asked, gesturing to himself. Fiddleford laughed.

“Alright, you got a point. Next time, I’ll bring some grass and we can smoke up here.” he replied.

“So, are you like, a hippy?” Sam asked.

Fiddleford shrugged, “Guess ya could say I’m a free spirit.”

Sam heaved a dramatic sigh, “Ya know, I usually hate hippies, but I guess I’ll let ya slide. Maybe you can change my mind about them.”

“You hate hippies? Why’s that?” Fiddleford asked curiously.

Sam shrugged, “A hippy may or may not have hypnotized my old girlfriend with his weird, free-spirited music and stole her from me.”

Fiddleford cocked an eyebrow, “I’m sorry to hear tha--”

“I got my revenge though. I may or may not have driven his van off a ravine”

Fiddleford fully turned to face Sam and realized that he wasn’t kidding. This probably should disturb him, but instead he found himself laughing.

“You really are somethin’, Sam.” The aforementioned Sam’s cheeks flushed with a blush. The pair glanced back to the town below, noticing how everyone below looked so small from their perspectives. Fiddleford couldn’t help but feel that being so much further above everyone made his problems and worries seem so small in the grand scheme of things. It was a frightening thought at times, to be so small, but at the same time, it brought him comfort.

However, that thought was soon chased away as he noticed the sun beginning to set on the horizon, casting pastel colors across the sky.

He sighed, genuinely upset to have to part ways, “I really ought to get back home; I got a lot of studying to do.”

Sam also seemed disappointed. After a moment, he responded, “Maybe tomorrow we can meet up here and I can help ya study?” he asked. Fiddleford considered his offer, turning towards Sam and smiling as their eyes met.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

They both smiled at each other, and for a brief moment, time seemed to slow. However, Fiddleford couldn’t stay there forever, as much as he wanted to. He had to get back and study eventually. Not to mention, he had a bet to settle. He motioned for Sam to follow him as they traced their way back through the woods. They continued, shoulder to shoulder as they finally made their way back to town, towards the campus where Fiddleford’s apartment was, and Stanley’s car was parked. By the time they reached the parking lot, it was dark. Fiddleford turned to Sam.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked. Sam nodded, smiling almost timidly, “Alright then, it’s a date. You wouldn’t happen to have a deck of cards I could borrow, would ya?”

Sam thought for a moment before going to his car and rooting through his glove box. He produced a worn deck of cards which he handed to Fiddleford.

“Ya gonna see if you can stack them on your roommate?” he asked.

Fiddleford merely grinned, “Knowing him, he probably will pass out later on tonight. If all goes well and I get a chance to try it, I’ll let ya know how it goes tomorrow.”

“Alright…” Sam paused, tone drawing out. He hesitantly added, “It’s a date then.”

Fiddleford smiled, endeared at how he used his own saying.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow then. Ya take care of yourself, ok Sam?” he said.

Sam nodded and mock saluted him, “You too, Fiddlesticks.” Fiddleford laughed and turned, raising a hand to wave farewell. Sam waved back and for the briefest of moment, Fiddleford hesitated before turning and retreating down the path towards his apartment again. He didn’t hear the car door opening, so he assumed that Sam was watching him, but he didn’t dare look back, not trusting himself to continue home if he saw the man still watching him.

Soon enough, the apartment came into view and Fiddleford let himself in. Almost in a trance, he soon found himself at his own door. Pulling his keys from his pocket, he unlocked the door, and sure enough, Stanford was sitting at the desk as usual, nibbling on a pen in thought as he looked over the pages of his notes.

However, as the door squeaked as Fiddleford closed it behind him, he twisted around to look at him.

“You’re back.” It was a simple statement, but Fiddleford knew his roommate well enough to know that he must have been suspicious when he was gone for so long.

Fiddleford removed his jacket and hung it by Ford’s on the coat rack by the door.

“Yeah. Sorry I was gone for so long. I guess I sort of lost track of time.” he replied.

Ford raised an eyebrow at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He was silent for a moment, but Fiddleford could tell he was mulling his words over (this surprised Fiddleford as he was used to Ford simply blurting out what came to mind without really stopping to think if his words were kind or not).

“You should be careful. This guy isn’t going to stay around forever, ya know?”

Fiddleford sighed. He tried not to think about that part. He had convinced Sam to stick around for a bit longer, but he didn’t know how long that meant.

“I know,” he sighed for longingly.

“I just--” Ford stopped, eyebrows furrowing in a look that Fiddleford knew meant that he was trying to form his thoughts into words. “I don’t want you to get too attached to this guy. He’s going to have to leave eventually.”

Fiddleford sighed, raising his hand to run it through his thick hair. “I know,” he said again. “It’s just-- he’s so much fun to be around.”

Ford’s lips tugged in a grin, “Sounds like you like him.”

Fiddleford sputtered at that, turning away so Ford wouldn’t see the way his cheeks flushed.

“What? That’s preposterous!”

“I don’t know” Ford’s voice drew out, teasing him, “You spend all day with him, you’ve barely touched your class work since you met this guy, and you’re always raving about him.”

This guilted Fiddleford ever so slightly, and felt the need to spin around and defend himself, and in a way, Sam, “I’ll have you know, Sam offered to help me study tomorrow!”

“Oh, so you have a study date, hmm?”

‘It’s a date!’ The words Fiddleford had used several times now, and had even been repeated by Sam played back to him.

“I highly doubt Sam sees it this way.” he said. He didn’t, or rather, couldn’t deny that he’d like that. But as Ford had pointed out numerous times now, Sam would have to leave eventually. Even if Sam did feel that way, which Fiddleford doubted he did, Sam knew this as well, and knew better than to get too attached to someone. He’d have to leave once this town couldn’t offer any more for him. He’d have to keep traveling to wherever he could make money, and even if he wanted to stick around for Fiddleford, he had to make a living.

Fiddleford heaved a rather heavy sign, shoulders sagging under this realization. Ford, seemingly taking pity on his friend, rose from his desk and laid a six finger hand on his shoulder.

“Cheer up, Fiddleford. Obviously this guy likes to spend time around you if he wants to help you study. He might not be around forever, but you can still enjoy the time you’ve got.”

After a pause, Fiddleford slowly turned to face Stanford, “You know, that’s surprisingly wise coming from you.”

Ford scoffed, “Don’t get used to it. I’m sure that’s the exhaustion and the coffee talking.”

The pair laughed for a moment. “Well, I should at least work on my project for a bit.” Fiddleford replied. Ford nodded and the pair took up their spot at their respective desks. Fiddleford picked up his screwdriver, and began tinkering with the robot he was building for one of his classes.

As it usually did whenever he worked on a project, time seemed to fly and with a yawn, he checked his watch. He cursed and abruptly stood to take a shower and go to bed. He glanced towards Ford’s way and saw that his roommate was fast asleep at his desk, a small puddle of drool pooling on his notes.

Quietly, he pulled the deck of cards that Sam had left him, and began setting up the house of cards, carefully balancing them on Stanford until his roommate was soon the foundation of a fairly massive mansion of cards. Satisfied with his work, and on the fact that he won the bet, he hurried to the shower before crawling into bed.

He briefly cast a glance outside his window. He wondered if Sam was sleeping now, and whether the same thoughts were running through his head. He supposed he wouldn’t know and forced the thought out of his mind. He didn’t want to waste however much time he had with Sam fretting. He decided he would instead focus more on the memories he’d make with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Zodiac Killer is the name given to the unidentified serial killer who killed at least five people in Northern California in the late 1960’s to early 1970’s. Seeing as this story is set in the 70’s, the killings would still be fairly new and popular, especially considering the Zodiac Killer is still one of the most infamous murders to this day and who’s police sketches likeliness was recently compared to presidential candidate, Ted Cruz, during the 2016 campaign.


	5. The Moon is Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So Radical Face came out with a new EP, and y’all should really check it out! It’s absolutely beautiful. I have about four chapter pre-written, but I was writing a lot of the newer chapters to it and wow, it’s just so inspiring.  
> This chapter is a lot longer than usual. There’s also a lot of warnings you might want to pay attention to. Again, it might spoil the chapter, but please make sure you check it out before reading. Stay safe, and please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s something else I need to tag. Happy reading!  
> WARNINGS: Drugs, illegal substances  
> Smoking of illegal substances  
> Slight sexual content  
> Internalized homophobia (slight)  
> Negative mentions of sex work  
> Assault, violence, mention and suggestion of rape.

_There ain’t no moon tonight_   
_It’s hard for me to see_   
_But if I can catch a glimpse of you_   
_It helps me feel at ease_   
_It helps me sleep_

As if they were a couple of old friends, the two fell into an easy routine. Stan waited for Fiddleford in the coffee shop, and the pair got coffee and pastries before continuing on with their plans for the day.

The next day, when Stan spotted Fiddleford from the window, several heavy looking textbooks and notebooks in his hands as well as a thick quilt that had been folded neatly, Stan darted to meet him at the door, taking the books from him.

“Sam!” Fiddleford exclaimed as the books were lifted from his arms, “You don’t have t’! I can carry them myself.”

Stan was already turned around, heading towards their usual table so he could set them down before Fiddleford could reclaim them. Fiddleford trailed behind, earning a laugh from Stan as he noticed his likeness to a nervous mother goose.

“Yeah, I know.” Stan shrugs. “Ya looked like you were strugglin’ a bit; you have a lot to carry after all. Yeesh, what is all of this, anyway?”

Fiddleford laughed, “It’s everything I need to study; my textbooks, as well as all of my class notes, and notes I’ve taken while reading. You still want to help me study today, right?” His voice trailed off uncertainty, and for a moment, Stan wondered if he thought that Stan couldn’t handle helping him study. He might be dumb as a door knob, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t quiz Fiddleford.

He scoffed, “Hell yeah, you can’t scare me off that easily.”

A weird look spread across Fiddleford’s face, one that Stan couldn’t look at without feeling his cheeks redden. He couldn’t quite decipher what it meant, and decided to let it slide.

“You wanna get coffee before we head out?” Stan asked. Fiddleford eagerly nodded,

“It’s my turn this time, so don’t even think about it!” Fiddleford said, playfully aiming a stern look his way. Stan laughed as they approached the counter.

“Yes, sir!”

The pair ordered their coffees, as well as a couple of cinnamon buns to snack on later. Stan handed his cup and pastry bag to Fiddleford as they returned back to the table.

“I’ll handle the books if you handle our coffees, and, uh, the quilt?” Stan said, not waiting for Fiddleford’s response as he leaned closer to the table, scooping the numerous books and notebooks into his arms. Fiddleford just sighed, realizing there was no arguing with him. Stubborn as a Pines, his family would say.

The two of them left the cafe and wove their way back through the town and between the houses, following the same path they did yesterday. Once in the trees, Stan had to carefully pluck his way through the woods, careful not to throw off his precarious balance. Fiddleford’s head was whipping around every now and then, as if checking on him.

“I’m fine, Fiddlesticks,” Stan replied to him in a playful, exasperated tone. “Just focus on where you’re going; I’ve been looking forward to that cinnamon bun.”

Still fretful, Fiddleford nodded. However, Stan could see that instead of turning his head, he’d just turn it slightly, glancing at Stan from the corners of his eyes. It was endearing, Stan thought, and didn’t have the heart to make a joke about it and possibly make him stop.

After a few more moments of plodding through the woods and struggling uphill, the trees fell away except for the one, lone tree standing at the top of the hill. Fiddleford sat down, coffee and pastries carefully balanced in his hands. Stan was panting heavily by this point. He wasn’t the most fit guy in the planet (not that anyone expected him to be with a gut like his), but walking uphill through the woods with a heavy pile of books in his arms left him panting as reached the top. Fiddleford carefully balanced the cups of coffee and bags of cinnamon buns on top of Stan’s book pile with an appreciative smile before unfolding the quilt and laying it out across the snow. Once Fiddleford retrieved the cups and bags, he deposited the books in front of Fiddleford.

“Thank ya, Sam. Ya really didn’t have t’.” he said softly, holding out Stan’s cup and bagged pastry as the pair sat down on the quilt.

“Oh, so now ya tell me,” Stan joked before tipping his coffee mug back, taking several sips, slurping loudly. Fiddleford shook his head fondly at him. He unfolded his cinnamon bun, and Stan followed suit, taking a bite. He wasn’t nearly as hungry as he had been the first time he and Fiddleford got coffee. So instead of gulping it down all at once, he actually got to savor it, enjoying in the flavors. He’d found a nice little diner in town that he’d taken to eating at. Since yesterday with Fiddleford had gone so well, he hadn’t wanted to spoil his good day by returning back to the bars. He still had enough money for food at the diner, but Stan knew he couldn’t afford to stay away from the bars forever, no matter how much he might want to.

That thought momentarily made him sigh.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” Fiddleford asked, causing Stan to jump. He hadn’t realized he’d sighed out loud. He opened his mouth, lie immediately on his lips but decided he’d lied enough. Fiddleford had shown time and time again that he was a trustworthy guy.

“I was just thinkin’ about work,” He said, truthfully, “I took a bit of a break yesterday, but I don’t think I can afford to do that again tonight.”

Fiddleford was thoughtful, silently finishing a bite of his cinnamon bun, but even once he swallowed, he was silent for a few moments, as if wondering what to say, what he could say.

“You really hate your work that much, huh?” he asked, sympathetic look in his eyes.

Stan usually hated whenever someone looked at him with a look of sympathy but the weird thing was… he didn’t mind Fiddleford. He still wasn’t wild about it, but he understood that Fiddleford cared for him.

It was odd, Stan realized. He didn’t think that Fiddleford was only spending time with him out of sympathy anymore. He was simply too genuine. Fiddleford always laughed at his jokes, exchanged stories with him, and appeared- dare he say it- disappointed when their time together had to come to a close.

He didn’t know why, but Fiddleford actually wanted to spend time with him. Damn, maybe Stan was a better con man than he gave himself credit for.

Realizing he still hadn’t answered Fiddleford’s question, he shrugged. “Nah, not really. But who really does enjoy their work?” He hoped that would satisfy Fiddleford enough. However, that dark voice in the back of his head reminded him that most people didn’t sell themselves for ‘work’.

“Hey now,” Stan said, realizing that Fiddleford was dwelling on what he said, “Enough of that kind of sappy shit. Let’s break out some of these notebooks of yours, huh?”

Fiddleford chuckled, solemn look on his face quickly disappearing, much to Stan’s relief. “Alright,” he said, reaching through his pile of miscellaneous textbooks and notebooks that Stan had deposited nearby. Setting the notebooks that he didn’t need aside, he flipped through some of the pages until he reached the current pages of notes. He scooted closer to Stan, and Stan also scooted over. Both ignored the fact that their shoulders were touching, but judging by the flush on both of their cheeks, they both noticed.

“So this is what my test is on,” Fiddleford explained, flipping through several pages filled with flowy cursive writing, a far cry from Stan’s own chicken scratch. Stan’s eyes darted over the page, trying to understand everything that Fiddleford said. He understood that Fiddleford had sacrificed some of his study time to hang out with him, and Stan wanted to make sure that he would be helpful today. “Ya can just ask me questions about the material, or ask me to define things. Ya know, that kind of thing.” Fiddleford explained patiently. He motioned the notebook closer to Stan, who took it and scanned the text more closely. Fiddleford hesitated before scooting a bit away, twisting his hips so he was sitting across from Stan.

Stan flipped back to the first page of notes that Fiddleford had indicated and read along the first line. God, he didn’t even know what half of these words meant, and he suddenly wondered if helping Fiddleford study was really such a good idea. He hadn’t even finished high school, let alone gone into a major as hard as robotics.

“Ok,” Stan said, pushing the self-doubts from him mind and forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand, “What is a bilateral contract?”

Fiddleford leaned back in the grass, propping himself up with a hand as he considered his answer. “A bilateral contract involves mutual promises, with each part being both a promisor and a promisee”

Stan grins, and nods, “You’re right.” He glances down at the cinnamon bun still poised on his lap and breaks off a piece of it to hand to Fiddleford.

Hesitantly, the southerner reaches to take the piece, his eyes flickering up to Stan’s with a look of confusion.

“For every right answer you give, you’ll get a piece of my cinnamon bun,” Stan simple explained.

Fiddleford was silent for a moment, but he quirked an eyebrow as he popped the piece into his mouth. “Sooo” he drew out, southern twang slipping into his words, “You’re basically conditioning me to give correct answers?”

Conditioning? Like what people did to their hair?

“Eh, sure, whatever,” Stan shrugged, glancing back down to the note sheet. “Ok, compare and contrast distributed computing and parallel computing.”

Fiddleford spent the next several minutes describing the similarities of each, as well as the differences. Stan’s eyes were quickly darting around the page as Fiddleford rattled off, struggling yet managing to follow Fiddleford’s explanations on the note sheet. He whistled as he broke off another piece of his cinnamon bun which Fiddleford eagerly took.

“Damn, do you really even need to study?” Stan asked, thoroughly impressed. He knew that Fiddleford must be smart, but he hadn’t anticipated that he was this smart.

Fiddleford’s cheeks flushed and looked a bit nervous at Stan’s praise, “Heh, yeah, I haven’t studied for this class yet, so I just want to make sure I understand everything before I just dismiss it.”

Stan scoffed, “So far it sounds like you might as well be teaching this class, rather than taking it.”

Fiddleford squirmed in his spot and goddamn if it wasn’t the most endearing thing. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop.” Stan promised. At least for now, anyways. Fiddleford was too fun (and easy) to tease.

The session continued, and Stan found himself breaking off bits of his cinnamon bun after nearly every question. Fiddleford seemed to only get more and more excited for his piece of the cinnamon bun after every question, and about an hour later, he was practically starting to fidget when Stan was simply asking the question, which greatly amused Stan. Page after page, the pair worked their way through Fiddleford’s notebook until finally, they reached the last page.

At the last question, Stan decided to reward Fiddleford with the remainder of his cinnamon bun, which the southern man instantly snatched like an animal, eliciting a short yelp from Stan. He watched Fiddleford gobble down the cinnamon bun, licking the remaining icing from his fingers when he was done. Stan closed the notebook and set it aside.

“It’s in my dumb, unknowledgable opinion that you are more than ready for this test.” Stan declared. Fiddleford briefly laughed, looking rather relieved. A strange thing happened though; after a moment, his expression looked crestfallen.

“Sam, you’re not dumb.” Fiddleford said, voice strangely soft. This simple statement alone somehow managed to short circuit Stan’s brain.

Not dumb? Him? Stan Pines? That was the world’s worst joke to Stan.

Fiddleford looked only more flustered as Stan loudly began laughing, “I’m serious!” he asserted, “Just ‘cause you’re not in school doesn’t mean you’re not smart.”

Stan’s laughter trickled down until his shoulders were only slightly shaking, “Fidds, I don’t think you understand,” he replied, “I’m probably the dumbest person you’ve ever met. I don’t know what gives you the impression that I’m anything other than that.”

Fiddleford didn’t back down, nor give up. He seemed to grow only more insistent. “Sam Pence, I don’t know what’s given you the impression to think of yourself in such a way.”

Stan shrugged, “I dunno, probably the fact that I failed outta high school.” And the fact that everything prior to his life had supported this fact.

The southern man firmly shook his head, “I already told ya, school doesn’t determine how smart a person is! There’s so many different types of intelligences, and school ain’t always for everyone. I’m willin’ to bet that you’re plenty smart! Hell, you’re probably smarter than me in some ways.”

Stan sputtered at this. Him, smarter than Fiddleford?

“I think you must have been drinkin’ too much coffee, Fiddlesticks. The idea that I’m smarter than you is a joke.” Fiddleford opened his mouth to retort but Stan shook his head.

“Come on now, I thought we decided earlier that we had enough of that sappy shit.” Stan said, wanting to change the subject. His intelligence wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. While he desperately wanted to believe Fiddleford’s words, Fiddleford was one person. Granted, he was one person who’s company and opinion Stan desired, but he still barely knew him, the real him anyways. Hell, he didn’t even realize that Sam wasn’t even his real name. Not to mention, the idea-- no, the fact-- that he was dumb had been cemented into his head more often than he could count. Growing up, he had always just been the dumber, sweatier version of his twin. First it was Crampelter who pointed it out, but even his high school principal had agreed, more or less.

Even if he hadn’t been kicked out, it wasn’t like he had much of a chance to graduate. Stanford always had a future. He was going to go places and do brilliant things, and even still, despite their fractured relationship (hell, could it even be called that when Stan hadn’t heard from his twin in four years), Stan was happy for him. His brother didn’t deserve to be held down by his dumb twin, one who’s only future after graduation would have been to scrape barnacles off the dock.

His face must have been reflecting his thoughts as the next thing he was aware of was Fiddleford’s hand firmly resting over his shoulder, giving him a squeeze in a way that made his heart clench. Damn if he couldn’t practically feel a six-fingered hand on his shoulder just like he had in his childhood. “Hey, I’m sorry.” Fiddleford apologized honestly, “I didn’t mean for this to upset ‘ya, or remind ‘ya of something that upset ya. I’m gonna drop it, but I do want ya to know that I don’t think you’re dumb.”

A soft, appreciative smile tugged at Stan’s lips as he lifted his head to meet Fiddleford’s kind but assertive gaze sheepishly. “Thanks, Fiddlesicks.” he murmured back softly, “I don’t agree with ya, but it means a lot to me that you don’t think I’m dumb.”

The hand around his shoulder gave him another affectionate squeeze as Fiddleford offered a small yet kind smile. Somehow, the man’s kind, blue eyes seemed to say more than words could and for a moment, the pair merely stared at one another. Finally, Fiddleford’s hands dropped from his shoulder.

“Ya know, I brought somethin’ that I think might cheer ya up.” he replied. Stan was intrigued.

“Oh yeah?”

Fiddleford nodded, tongue poking out from between his lips as he rooted around in his pockets until his eyebrows sharply rose, apparently finding what he was looking for.

“Ah- ha!” he exclaimed as he revealed a small tin, as well as a bowl, “Now that we’re done studying, wanna have a toke?”

Stan nodded enthusiastically, “Hell yeah!” He scooted closer, books pushed aside to make room. He watched as Fiddleford removed the lid from the tin and began to pack the bowl. Setting the bowl down on the quilt carefully, Fiddleford patted his pockets.

“Oh shucks,” Fiddleford said, disappointed. “I think I forgot my lighter.”

Stan, reaching into his pocket, procured his lighter and offered it to Fiddleford.

“Thank God!” Fiddleford said, sighing in relief. He lifted the bowl from the quilt and offered it to Stan. “Want the first puff?”

Stan nodded, tucking his lighter into his palm as he took the bowl. Lifting the bowl to his face, his lips moved around the mouth piece. Shifting to hold the bowl in one hand, he used his lighter in the other to light the buds. Covering the hole, he inhaled. A few seconds later, he let go of the hole, continuing to inhale until he couldn’t draw in anymore smoke. He offered the bowl and the lighter to Fiddleford as he sat back and exhaled with a content smile on his face.

He watched as Fiddleford repeated the motion, joining him to lean back against the hill as he exhaled. Silently, they passed the bowl and lighter back and forth until all the buds were burnt. Fiddleford emptied out what was left in the bowl then pocketed it, as Stan pocketed his lighter.

For a while, they merely sat in silence, enjoying each other’s company as they watched the town below. The people bustled about their days, looking like tiny ants from their higher perspective.

After a few moments, Fiddleford looked to Stan, a relaxed look in his eyes. “Did I tell ya that my roommate passed out at his desk last night?”

Stan giggled, “Did you use those cards I gave ya?”

Fiddleford nodded, his own giggles chorusing Stan’s. “Yep! He didn’t wake up at all and I used every card in the deck.”

The pair’s giggles were renewed.

“No way! That must have taken ya a while?” Stan asked, feeling as though his lips were permanently stuck in a dopey smile. He couldn’t tell if it was the effects of the weed, or if it was because he was around Fiddleford.

Fiddleford shrugged, “It was a bit hard at first. Especially trying to balance the cards around his body, but once I got the hang of it, it wasn’t too hard.” He laughed heartily, “It was worth it to hear him wake up this morning. He was so confused when a bunch of cards fell over on him, but once he realized that only one person could have done it---” Fiddleford broke off in a fit of laughter that was so contagious that Stan couldn’t help but laugh along. “I’ve never heard him so angry. He was all--” His voice dropped low and a serious expression took over his face as he mimicked his roommate, bellowing “Fiddleford!!”

The pair broke off in a fit of laughter. Stan’s hand slapped his own knee as he laughed harder than he had in years. Fiddleford’s hand rested on his shoulder as he doubled over where he was sitting.

“I guess I should be more disappointed that I lost the bet, huh?” Stan asked, grinning at Fiddleford who scoffed, waving his hands.

“Don’t worry about it,” Fiddleford said, looking at Stan. Stan hadn’t realized that they’d both leaned closer to each other during their fit of laughter until now, seeing as their noses were only a few inches apart. “I had too much fun with it; that was reward enough.”

Fiddleford’s eyes glanced down for a moment before looking back up to Stan, eyes hooded, “‘Sides, I’m content enough to just spend time with ya.”

A silence stretched out between the two as they stared at each other, Fiddleford looking through his lashes at him. Or rather, it would have been silent if it weren’t for the fact that their breathing suddenly seemed so loud, and the pounding of his heart against his ribs, were all he could hear.

As if they were linked, they both leaned forward, closing the small gap between them. Their lips ghosted against each other, both tentative and testing. When neither of them pulled away, Stan shifted his weight to one hand so he could cup Fiddleford’s cheek as he deepened the kiss.

Time seemed to still as they kissed, and all of Stan’s senses were consumed by Fiddleford, intoxicating him more than the weed had. Even with his eyes closed, all he saw was Fiddleford, all he heard was the soft sounds of Fiddleford’s lips moving against his and the occasional muffled gasp, all he felt was Fiddleford’s lips on his, all he tasted was the weed they shared and the sweet, faint taste of cinnamon still on Fiddleford’s lips.

Stan had kissed plenty of people over the years, but never had he shared a kiss like this. Never had he cared about the person he had kissed before, apart from needing them for his next meal, and more significantly, no one had ever cared about him. He had never imagined in his wildest dreams that Fiddleford would find him attractive, or would have liked him. Briefly, it occured to Stan that this could all be because of the weed they smoked, or maybe Fiddleford just thought he was attractive and would never like him that way Stan liked him, but oddly enough, Stan didn’t care.

He would take as much as Fiddleford was willing to give him, whatever the reason was.

As if on cue, Stan felt Fiddleford’s jaw part widen slightly, enough space for his tongue to brush against Stan’s teeth, wanting more. Stan would have given him anything if Fiddleford asked for it.

As Stan parted his teeth, his tongue brushed against Fiddleford’s, and the taste of Fiddleford seemed to consume him. Like a hormonal sixteen year old, he couldn’t help the needy moan that rumbled from the back of his throat. Spurred on by this, Fiddleford leaned closer, wrapping his arms around Stan’s shoulders. The hand on Fiddleford’s cheek fell away in favor of resting both his hands on Fiddleford’s hips.

This still wasn't enough. Their kiss changed as if a switch flipped. Instead of being sweet, tender, and a bit tentative, their kiss became hungry, desperate and frantic. Fiddleford moved closer, pressing back on Stan until he laid back against the quilt, arms snaking around Fiddleford’s waist and pulling him closer. Fiddleford eagerly followed him down, shifting to straddle Stan’s waist, one leg on either side of him.

Neither of them were silent anymore, the wet sound of their kiss was accented with various moans, groans, and sighs. The hands on Fiddleford’s waist drifted up, caressing his back, and feeling the curve of his spine, earning a particularly needy sound from Fiddleford’s. Stan could feel a hand in his hair, running through his long strands and occasionally gripping him in a way that made Stan’s heart clench. The other hand glided up his arm, across his shoulder to his chest.

All of this contact was making Stan feel rather lightheaded. “Fiddleford,” he whispered breathlessly into the kiss. Fiddleford broke the kiss as he sat up slightly, and for one horrifying moment, Stan thought he broke the spell and that Fiddleford was about to tell him off for taking advantage of him.

Instead, Fiddleford shifted lower ever so slightly, dipping his head down to kiss and nibble at Stan’s neck. He nibbled a sensitive patch of skin, earning a loud groan from Stan. Fiddleford’s eyes flickered up to look at Stan’s face as his tongue darted out to sooth the spot he just nipped. This continued, with Fiddleford moving across the surface of Stan’s neck until he stopped near Stan’s collarbone, biting and sucking on the spot, all the while drawing out all sorts of moans from Stan.

As Fiddleford was paying attention to his neck, Stan’s hands drifted down Fiddleford’s back, starting from below his shoulder blades, and slowly snaking their way down until his fingertips squeezed Fiddleford’s ass, earning a whine from the man sucking at his neck. He broke away from Stan’s neck and quickly moving back up to capture his lips with his, grinding his hips down against Stan’s as he did so.

The pair stayed like this for what felt like a lifetime, just kissing and caressing each other. Stan couldn’t recall a time when he had been so happy, so content. He could have happily stayed like this forever. That is, until the church bell sounded, reverberating to their spot on the hill, alerting him that it was now dark out, and he couldn’t escape work forever if he hoped to eat. He stiffened at the thought, his hands halting. Fiddleford must have noticed as he broke the kiss and sat up.

“Are you ok, Sam?” He asked, voice quiet and soft as if he didn’t trust himself to speak any louder. Stan could relate. Feeling a stab of self-hatred and self-pity, he shook his head.

“What’s wrong? Did I go to far?” Fiddleford asked, eyes worried as his hand cupped Stan’s cheek, caressing softly.

Stan sighed and draped an arm over his eyes, not wanting to make eye contact with Fiddleford. He could still see his eyes in his mind, but he knew if he saw them, he’d say fuck it and would stay here all night. But Stan already knew that the moment was ruined, and he couldn’t afford to skip that nights profits, even if the thought of going back to the bar bathroom after what just happened with Fiddleford made his stomach churn.

“I have to go back to work; I can’t afford to miss another night.” he said, hating himself more and more with every word. Sensing his dilemma and inner turmoil, Fiddleford leaned forward and pressed a soft, chast kiss to Stan’s lips.

“Hey, it’s ok,” He replied, “I gotta get back too. I have class tomorrow and can’t stay out too late.”

Stan supposed he said this to make him feel better about ruining the moment. For a brief moment, it did until he realized that if Fiddleford had class tomorrow, he probably wouldn’t be able to see him.

A moment later, always seeming to read his thoughts, Fiddleford added, “I have class at noon, but I can meetcha at the coffee shop earlier, if uh, if you can.” His hands rested on Stan’s upper arms, soothingly rubbing up and down.

Stan finally gave in, arm dropping from his face to rest his hands over Fiddleford’s. “You really want to?” He asked, hating the way his voice dripped with need. Fiddleford smiled back down at him, that concerned look on his face replaced by a grin, as if what Stan said was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“Of course I do, silly!” he said with a laugh. He squeezed Stan’s arms and slid off of Stan, allowing him to sit up and straighten his jacket.

Relief washed over him. He was a bit shocked that Fiddleford wasn’t yelling at him, telling him off for kissing and touching him in such a way, and by another man to make matters worse. Of course, Stan reminded himself, they were still high. Come morning, Fiddleford would remember what they did and wouldn’t want to see him again.

Stan tried not to think of this, wanting to enjoy the moment while he still could. Fiddleford looked at him, and for a moment, Stan thought that he was going to kiss him again. Instead, Fiddleford turned away and began piling all of his textbooks and notebooks together. Stan got to his feet and lifted the quilt from off the ground. He shook off the snow clinging to the back before folding it neatly. He passed the quilt to Fiddleford and picked up the pile of books. Stan turned to head back down the path when Fiddleford’s hands reached out and grabbed his arm.

Stan turned back to him curiously.

“I really had a good time today,” Fiddleford said in a way that made Stan wonder how he was so lucky to have met Fiddleford.

Stan smiled tenderly, more tenderly than he thought he was capable of, “I had a good time too, Fiddleford.” They stood there for a moment longer, smiling at each other before they simultaneously turned and followed their snowy footsteps back down the hill and back through town. Stan convinced Fiddleford to let him walk him back to his apartment, seeing as how heavy the books were.

Stopping at the door, the pair finally stopped and turned to each other, silent for a moment.

“Well, I guess I gotta go to work,” Stan said, offering the pile of books towards Fiddleford, who accepted.

“Does 11 tomorrow morning sound ok?” Fiddleford asked.

Stan nodded, “It’s a date.” Stan briefly considered kissing his cheek, but decided better of it, not wanting to risk Fiddleford’s safety by kissing him in public.

“Alright, well, have a good night, Sam.” Fiddleford said. His hands were too laden down by books to wave, so instead, he wiggled his elbow at him as he turned towards the door. Stan waved back and after making sure that Fiddleford got into his building ok, turned around. Heaving a sigh, he stuffed his hands in his pocket and traced his way back to the car. He retrieved what was left of his money from its hiding place and stuffed it in his pockets, planning on getting a bite to eat from the diner further in town before looping back to the bars.

As he began walking down the street, he barely noticed the people on the street. Seeing as it was a Sunday night, it was more quiet. Most of the college students wouldn’t be out now, but that didn’t mean the streets were bare. The bars were still loud, filled with older adults who just wanted a beer before the week started. Outside the bars, a couple of them would cluster together, the lit ends of the cigarettes burning through the dark night.

Stan barely noticed. Not even the tempting smell of tobacco was enough to break his train of thought. His brain was replaying what had just happened with Fiddleford now that he finally had time to comprehend everything.

Fiddleford had kissed him.

What was more, it hadn’t been just a little, innocent peck. It had been a full out make out session as if they were a couple of teenagers. What baffled him though was the fact that Fiddleford hadn’t treated him any differently afterwards, sans being maybe a bit more openly affectionate or honest with him.

It was too good to believe, honestly.

Everything about Fiddleford was too good to be true. Stan knew that this could only end in disaster, but he found that he didn’t care. He wasn’t scared of how badly it would end, caring more about when he would see Fiddleford next. Spending time with him was worth the risk, and Stan found that for once, he was willing to let his guard down and take that risk.

“Hey you!” A loud, deep voice boomed from his side. Stiffening, Stan turned his head and had to squint to see several figures in an alleyway just a few feet away from him.

“Wrong guy-- woah hey!” Stan shouted as a pair of hands grabbed his arms and yanked him into the alley. He was shoved to the ground deeper in the alley, which he now noticed was a dead end. Blocking his way out was three massive guys. The voice that had just called out at him previously spoke again.

“Still think we got the wrong guy?” He asked. As Stan’s gaze met the man who had addressed him, his blood ran cold. The three men collectively laughed.

“Yeah, I bet you recognize me now, don’t ya, whore?” It was the guy from the bar. The only guy that hadn’t been nervous enough to fuck him. Judging by the overpowering smell of alcohol, they were all trashed.

A loud siren rang in his head, telling him to get out of there as quickly as he could. These guys obviously didn’t have good intentions. They stepped closer to him as he scrambled further away from them.

“Please, I don’t want any trouble.” Stan said, climbing to his feet. The group didn’t cease their procession towards him.

“You weren’t kiddin’ when you said he has a sweet ass.” The one guy who hadn’t yet spoken says, eyes scrutinizing Stan in a way that chills him to his core.

“I can’t wait to get in that.” The other man adds, causing him and the other two men to laugh sinisterly.

Stan is panicking by this point, eyes darting around the alley. He knows he has no hopes of taking all three men on, and there wasn’t many escape routes in this alley.

“I-I’ll be going back to the bars tonight. Y-you can come to my stall!” Stan pleaded, hoping desperately that he could talk his way out of whatever they were planning.

“You think we’re going to pay for what we can just take?” The one man piped up.

“I already paid once, and you were lucky I did, but I had to make sure you’d be good enough.” The man from the bar grumbled out, his voice sounding like gravel, “I also expect to get that money back.”

Stan was trembling by this point. He hadn’t noticed that he had continued backing up until he felt the brick wall at the end of the alley against his back. Meanwhile, the men had advanced the entire time, smirking once Stan’s back hit the wall.

“I-I-I’ll do it for free!” Stan exclaims, “Please-- just let me --” He gasps as a fist suddenly slams into his cheek, sending him crashing to the ground. All hell broke loose after this. He could feel hands on him, grabbing and ripping at his clothes. Stan blindly lashed out, hands desperately balled into fists and frantically trying to fight off the hands on him. Another fist collided on his nose, sprawling him on his back with such force that his head crashed into the hard, unforgiving concrete.

A loud ringing sounded in his ears, and Stan was thoroughly dazed. He could feel the blood from his probably broken nose dripping down his lower face. His limbs churned, moving as if he was under water. The hands on his body were more insistent than ever. He was distantly aware that one hand robbed him of the cash in his pocket, but that was quickly forgotten as a hand turned him over and ripped a hole into his jeans. The cold air nipped at the skin now exposed from the hole, making him forget all about the cash they had just stolen from him. He could hear the sound of a zipper, presumably from one of the men, and despite his confused state, his blood froze, knowing what was next.

Struggled renewed, he tried clawing his way away from them. A voice sounded as if from another end of a tunnel. “He’s still awake!”

Stan’s own panicked breathing was loud in his ears until a large fist grabbed his hair, forced him to tilt his head back before shoving his head harshly into the ground once more. Before the darkness creeping around his vision consumed him, Stan could hear the laughter from the men grow fainter and fainter until finally, blissfully, he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn’t tell by now, I know absolutely nothing about robotics or engineering. To make up for this, I’ve been trying to google course requirements from various colleges. Information from the study session comes from a quizlet about Distributed and Autonomous Systems which is a higher level course for the programming part of robotics. Don’t be fooled though, I still don’t know shit about any of this, so please keep this in mind.


	6. A Pound of Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mentions of violence/blood (and vaguely rape)
> 
> Note: This is probably the longest chapter yet ops. As with one of the previous chapters, since this is told from Fiddleford’s perspective, keep in mind that he’ll be addressing Stan as Sam. Also check out the warnings for this chapter!

_Oh, my boy, you’re alive_   
_Your heart’s still beating_   
_So don’t you mind, don’t you mind_   
_We all drift sometimes_

Fiddleford’s first class ended around 10:30, giving him plenty of time to return to his apartment, drop off his things, and have a bit of time to relax before he had to leave to meet Sam at their usual coffee shop. He had barely been able to concentrate in class. Not for the first time since it happened, Fiddleford thought about the previous nights events. Despite being high, his memories were vivid. While he had been lying in bed last night tossing and turning, he had been able to recall the kiss so vividly that he could have sworn that Sam was there with him in his room.

That moment they had shared together felt like it was straight out of a fairy tale. Granted, most characters in fairy tales weren’t high, but the devil's in the details. Fiddleford had lived a fairly sheltered life on the farm. Since coming to college, he only kissed several people, but kissing Sam was like he was realizing for the first time what it was really like to kiss someone. He could never understood how someone could be content to spend hours upon hours kissing another person, but now he understood. He could have stayed there on that hilltop, cold weather be damned, until the sun rose the next morning, and even still, he’d have to tear himself away.

As he arrived at his apartment, he walked straight back through the kitchen and down the hallway to his room. He dropped his bag on his bed and was about to plop down beside it when the sound that resembled several things falling in the room over-- Stanford’s room-- sounded, muffled through the walls. Curious, he knocked on Stanford’s door but found that as his fist hit the door, it cracked open.

“Come in!” His roommates voice called, not realizing that Fiddleford was already letting himself in.

“What in the Sam Hill are ya doin’ in here?” Fiddleford asked. His roommate, who was standing by his bedside desk, fishing various loose sheets of papers off his desk which he stuffed into his bag.

“I overslept!” Ford exclaimed, “I’m going to be late for my class if I don’t hurry!”

Fiddleford sighed, pinching his brow, “This wouldn’t happen if you just got rest when ya need it. You wait so long that your body just crashes.” He loved his roommate dearly, but Ford’s lack of care for him own health and well being concerned him.

“I don’t have time!” Ford said, urgency bleeding through his tone. Fiddleford sighed. He’d been trying to drive some sense into his roommates head for the past several years to no success. He quickly zipped his book bag shut and threw it over his shoulder. Stepping out of his way, Ford hurried past, huffing and grumbling under his breath.

“Bye!” Fiddleford called after him, shaking his head fondly. He heard Ford yell a ‘bye’ back just before the door shut behind him loudly. Taking one last glance at Ford’s chaotic room, Fiddleford left his room, closing it behind him. He glanced back into his own room, peeking at the clock displayed on his bedside desk, he decided he’d head down early. It was about 10 minutes until 11, but apart from their first meeting, Sam was usually already waiting for him at the cafe.

Double checking that his keys were in his pocket, he left his apartment building and headed down towards the cafe. To his disappointment, he noticed that Sam wasn’t there yet, so he resided himself to sit at the table and wait for him.

Time seemed to inch slowly, especially when Fiddleford’s eyes were darting from the clock ticking steadily on the wall, to the door. One minute turned to two. Two turned to five, and five turned to ten. It was now after 11, and this struck Fiddleford as unusual. Sam had been early most of the times they met at the coffee shop, but Fiddleford reminded himself that it wasn’t too long after 11. He resided himself to wait a few more minutes.

Ten more minutes passed with no sign of Sam and Fiddleford was beginning to worry more.

Sam hadn’t-- he hadn’t left town, had he? He knew what happened last night could be a lot for someone to take in, especially considering what had happened with someone of the same sex. Some would say it wasn’t natural (However, growing up on the farm had meant that Fiddleford had seen many animals trying to mate with another of the same gender, so really, who was the unnatural one?).

Exiting the cafe, he walked to the parking lot where Sam’s El Diablo was usually parked, and sure enough, it was parked in the same spot it had been the night before they had walked past it on the way home. Only the drivers seat was empty, and after a quick peek inside, decided he wasn’t elsewhere in the car.

At least that meant he was still in town.

Fiddleford wasn’t sure what to think at this point. Maybe he had gotten lost? Or lost track of time again? Fiddleford decided to take a walk through the main streets of town, keeping an eye out for Sam. Heading down the street, his eyes darted back and forth from one side to another, eyes searching for his friend.

It was fairly slow going and Fiddleford didn’t stop until the shops faded to town houses. He sighed, wondering where in the world he could be. He was truly confused by this point. Maybe he was at the coffee shop by now and Fiddleford was worried for nothing. He crossed the street, deciding to check again, this time from the opposite side of the road, just in case.

He was nearly back towards the cafe, passing the strip of bars when a faint groan reached his ears. It sounded like it was originating from one of the alleys between bars. He had gone through town at night before and knew well enough that the bars were typically where bar goers like to stop and smoke, leaning against the side of the bar and laughing with friends. Only, there was no one smoking outside the bar now.

However, as Fiddleford squinted his eyes and searched the shadows, he noticed there was this odd shape near the back of the alley. Fiddleford’s came to a halt, tilting his head as he tried to decipher what it was.

He wanted to believe the form was just some trash someone had left in the alley, but he knew what he heard. The groan might have been low, but it was he knew he heard it.

Slowly, disregarding every red flag that sprung up in his head, he slowly stepped into the alley, growing more and more tense with every step.

“H-hello?” He asked, cursing his voice for betraying the nervous fear he was feeling. For a moment, nothing changed, but the thing shifted ever so slightly.

Slightly empowered seeing the thing move and figuring that whatever that is might be living and needed help, Fiddleford’s feet carried him towards the shape.

As he neared, he realized it definitely wasn’t a bag of trash. In fact, it looked almost human, almost kinda like…

“Sam!” he exclaimed, his shock making his southern accent even heavier.

As Fiddleford dropped to his knees beside Sam, he raised his hand to touched him when he paused. His eyes painfully raked over him, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Sam was lying on his side, eyes swollen shut, lower face coated in crusty, dried blood, seemingly originating from his nose which Fiddleford knew just from a glance was broken. The blood had stained the collar of the coat he had given him. There were several other rips and miscellaneous stains on his jacket and his pants… god, his pants were a whole other story. It was even worse than the jacket, stained with blood, torn and revealing patches of skin turned black and blue with bruises.

This sight shocked him stiff, and for a moment, he thought he would get sick. He feared that Sam wasn’t breathing for a moment, until he recalled that he had moved slightly just a few moments before. If not just to reassure himself that he was alive, Fiddleford’s hand pressed against his neck carefully, heaving a sigh of relief when he felt a pulse.

“Sam!” he exclaimed frantically, wanting to shake him awake but too frightened to hurt him further. Instead, he tucked a few stray pieces of hair away from his bruised face. “Come on, Sam, wake up! Please.”

A quiet, low moan sounded from between cracked lips, his eyelids flickering before slowly cracking open partially. He seemed to stare back at Fiddleford, not really understanding what he was seeing.

Fiddleford was just relieved to see him coming around. His hands, ever so carefully, cupped Sam’s cheeks, “Oh my lord, Sam. What in the world happened to you?”

He didn’t receive an answer, not that he really thought he’d get one. Instead, he did hear Sam mumble out his name. Fiddleford nodded to him, “Yes! Yes, it’s me, Sam. It’s Fiddleford.” he replied, tears stinging his eyes, “It’s ok now, ya hear me? We’re gonna get ya back to my place and we’ll fix ya up good as new.”

Sam turned his head to the side slightly, raising a hand to rub his forehead. This drew a sharp hiss.

“Sam, I’m gonna need your help, alright?” Fiddleford said, begging him to listen, “I can’t carry ya’ back home by myself. I need ya to help me and then you can rest as much as you want. Can ya do this for me?”

In his panic, his southern accent was starting to bleed into his speech more and more.

At first, Fiddleford thought that he didn’t hear him, until finally, Sam jerked out a slight nod.

“Ok!” Fiddleford said, sounding relieved, “Ok, good. I’m gonna put your arm around my shoulder and we’re gonna get you to your feet, alright?”

Seemingly becoming more and more alert by the moment, Sam nodded. Fiddleford shifted closer and gently took Sam’s arm, leaning down so he didn’t tug on Sam as he draped it around his shoulder. Keeping one hand on that arm, his other hand snaked around Sam’s middle securely.

“On three,” He said, glancing at Sam’s face, face dipping down slightly in an exhausted nod. “One… two… three!”

Fiddleford carefully tried to guide Sam to his feet as the other weakly shifted his legs under him, looking almost like a foal struggling to get to its feet. Sam groaned with pain, but once his feet was under him, he took a moment to rest. Fiddleford didn’t want to spend too much time resting, however. It was still cold out, and he was concerned for how badly that was affecting him, amongst his other injuries. Not to mention, Stan’s legs were trembling, shaking like leaves in a rainstorm. He wanted to get him home before whatever strength he had left ran out.

“Ok, let’s get going.” Fiddleford encouraged, taking a small step forward but was stopped by Sam.

“Wait-- I--” Sam’s voice trailed off, eyes dropped and unable to meet Fiddleford’s gaze.

“What’s wrong?” Fiddleford asked, stepping back to Stan, giving the hand still in his grasp a gentle squeeze.

“They, uh, they ripped my pants.” Sam admitted with some difficulty, “I can’t walk through town like this.”

The implications to his ripped pants weren’t lost to Fiddleford, but he didn’t want to jump to the worst conclusions and freak out until he’d heard the story from Sam. He was still for a moment before he carefully released the hand holding Sam’s arm across his shoulders, trusting him to keep it there himself whilst Fiddleford carefully shucked off his own jacket.

“What are you--” Sam’s question was cut off as Fiddleford took the sleeves, winding one around Sam’s waist and tying it with the other one, securing the longer end of the coat so that it covered the rip in Sam’s jeans.

“That better?” He asked.

“You’re gonna be cold.” Sam pointed out.

“And you’re colder,” Fiddleford responded, assuming his earlier position, securing Sam’s arm across his shoulder, “I’ll be fine, trust me.”

They lapsed into silence in favor of concentrating on their movements. Luckily the bar wasn’t too terribly far away. But what would be a short walk took a lot longer. Because of this, they were forced to stop several times to allow Sam to rest, legs trembling and face twisted in pain, despite Sam’s efforts to hide it. Fiddleford remained patiently, yet after allowing Sam a few quiet moments of rest, encouraged him to keep continuing until finally, they were at Fiddleford’s apartment.

Fiddleford opened the door, helping Sam through. The other man's eyes gazed around the apartment building. “Ya know, I always imagined a different circumstance when I finally saw your apartment for the first time.”

Fiddleford has no idea how he could joke around when he looked as he did. “Next time will be on better circumstances,” he promises, turning down the hall that led to his apartment, silently thankful that Stanford wouldn’t be back from classes for a while longer.

Turning his keys in the lock, Fiddleford nudged the door open with his foot. “Just a few more feet,” he encouraged, leading Sam to the couch, who sunk down into it heavily with a groan. Fiddleford scrambled back to shut and lock the door before scurrying to the bathroom, rooting through the cabinets for the first aid kit.

“Aha!” He said triumphantly as he found it. As he dashed back to the living room, he found Sam huddled on the couch, shivering pitifully. Fiddleford’s heart at the mere sight. Setting the first aid supplies at Sam’s feet before retreating to the laundry room. He found the same thick quilt they had used the previous night in the drier and hurried back to Sam with it.

He helped Sam lean forward before wrapping the quilt snuggly around him. Sam took the edges of the quilt and brought it around him tightly, burrowing into it.

Sam murmured a quiet ‘thank you’ from the safety of the quilt.

“You’re welcome, Sam.” he replied sincerely.

Realizing he needed one more thing, Fiddleford grabbed a clean towel and filled a bowl with warm water before returning back to Sam. “Let’s clean this blood off of ya,” he replied, dipping the towel in the warm water and carefully dabbing it to Sam’s face, noting that most of the blood seemed to flake off easily. It seemed as though luckily his face wasn’t as bad off as all the blood made it seem. Most of it had originated from his nose, though he found a few more cuts and scrapes underneath the dried blood.

Once the blood was finally clean from Sam’s face, it became obvious that something was still definitely wrong with Sam’s nose.

“Uh…” Fiddleford began tentatively, “I’m pretty sure that your nose is broken.”

“Huh?” Sam grunts, fingers tentatively prodding at his crooked nose. He rolls his eyes, as if he was merely inconvenienced, “You’re right.”

Before Fiddleford has a chance to process what he’s doing, Sam pinches his nose with both and and gives a short jerk. The crack is drowned out by Sam’s muffled groan as he forces his nose back into place.

“Oh my golly, Sam! Are ya ok?” Fiddleford asked, eyes wide and jaw slack. Sam waved him off and settled back into the couch.

“Yeah, happens all the time,” He replies nonchalantly, “You didn’t think my nose was naturally this big, did ya?”

How he could joke around when he was still so battered and obviously in pain, Fiddleford couldn’t begin to understand.

He could feel Sam’s eyes watching him. Fiddleford shook his head, mentally noting to ask how he could be so nonchalant about this later. He had a lot yet to do before Sam was fixed up. He picked several bandaids from the kit and used them to patch up the one particularly jagged cut across Sam’s cheek.

“Ok, your face is looking somewhat decent now.” Fiddleford reports.

“Gee, thanks Fidds. Tell me how you really feel.”

Fiddleford scoffed. “I’m gonna be honest with ya, I’m not sure how to help with the rest of ya.” he says honestly. He didn’t know the details of the attack, but the ripped jeans made Fiddleford assumed the worse, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable Sam would be to let him help him.

He wasn’t the most experienced with taking care of injuries. The most experience he had was putting a bandaid on one of his siblings skinned knees, or helping care for some of the farm animals if they got injured. He’d never dealt with something of this scale on another human before, and that uncertainty frightened him.

Sam looked somewhat uncomfortable, “Would- uh- would I be able to use your tub?”

Fiddleford nods “Of course. I’ll go run the water a while.” He says, quickly getting to his feet and hurrying to start the bath. Turning to the cupboard above the sink, he fished out a bottle of painkillers. He went back to the kitchen and filled a glass of water before returning to Sam’s spot on the couch.

“Take these,” he says, shaking out a few pills into his hand. Sam gratefully takes them and downs them quickly.

“The water’s runnin’; do ya wanna make yer way to the bathroom a while?” he asks. Sam nods, bashful look suddenly spreading across his face.

“Uh-- would you be able to help me? My legs are still a bit too shaky.”

Fiddleford smiles softly, “Of course, Sam.” he replied, offering a hand to Sam, who takes it with a grateful smile. Fiddleford helps him to his feet, and slowly helps Sam down the hall to the bathroom. Sam looked immensely better without the blood staining his face, but watching him hobble down the short hallway to the bathroom like an old man was painful to see. Once in the bathroom, Fiddleford gently lowered Sam onto the closed toilet seat.

Now seated again, Sam adjusted the quilt still around his shoulders. Pleasantly, his shivers had almost disappeared, but he was still practically clutching the quilt around him.

“Be right back.” Fiddleford said. At Sam’s nod, he left the bathroom and grabbed a fresh towel from the small closet arcros from the bathroom. When he returned, Sam was pulling his shirt over his head, revealing a mosaic of bruises on his arms and torso. For a fleeting moment, Fiddleford noticed the hickies he had left the night prior, but they looked so small compared to the many bruises peppering Sam’s ribs.

“Christ,” Fiddleford gasped. Like a car crash, he couldn’t pull his eyes away. “What did they do to you? How did this happen?” Sam’s eyes were glued to his shoes.

“Couple’a drunk guys jumped me by the bars.” It was all he said, as if that should be enough to satisfy all the questions floating around in Fiddleford’s head. The southern man opened his mouth to ask more questions but quickly shut it. Sam was already uncomfortable, and he didn’t seem too eager to talk about what happened in detail. He didn’t want to make the situation worse just because he wanted answers.

“Let me help ya with your shoes.” Fiddleford offered, changing the subject, more for Sam’s comfort than his own desires. He wanted to know everything that happened. Who did this? What did they do to Sam? Why? Sam obviously didn’t want to talk about it, not that Fiddleford could blame him, so he would be patient, helping however he could and hoping that maybe Sam would give him some information when he was more comfortable.

He knelt down on the linoleum in front of Sam, nimble fingers used to working on the inner mechanisms of a robot untying the laces and carefully wiggling Sam’s foot out. He placed the shoes behind him, closer to the wall and added his socks to the pile once he’d removed them.

All that was left was the tattered pants, but Fiddleford wasn’t going to touch those unless Sam asked him to, not wanting to possibly trigger reminders of what happened that night before.

“Would ya mind turnin’ around?” Sam asked, voice quiet. Fiddleford promptly turned around, but didn’t leave the room in case Sam needed help. The sound of ruffled clothing sounded, occasionally accompanied by Sam’s hisses of pain, despite his obvious attempts to conceal it. This drug on for a few moments, Fiddleford dutifully standing with his back to Sam, despite his overwhelming desire to help him.

A moment later, Sam spoke up, “You can turn around now.”

Fiddleford did so and found that Stan had draped the quilt over his waist and lower legs. The ruined, blood stained jeans sat in a heap beside him and Fiddleford could tell those pants were beyond salvaging.

Sam couldn’t quite meet Fiddleford’s gaze, obviously embarrassed by the situation. “Can you help me in?” he asked, voiced so low that Fiddleford barely heard him.

“Of course,” he replied, feeling a surge of shock. Sam wasn’t one to ask for help. The first day he had met, he had been visible uncomfortable asking for just one coin so he could call his Ma. He’d only given Fiddleford vague details on his obviously hard life, and the moment he had gotten some cash, he had insisted to buy his and Fiddleford’s coffee and treats. All of that considered, Fiddleford knew how hard it must be for him to ask for help, or to even acknowledge that he needed it in the first place.

He offered a hand to Sam, which he took, the other hand carefully holding the quilt in place. The pair shuffled closer to the bathroom.

“You can drop the blanket, I’ll turn my head.” Fiddleford offered, already turning his head to stare pointedly at the wall. He could hear the sound of the quilt dropping to the floor, and a moment later, water rippling as Sam stepped into the tub. Fiddleford inched a bit closer, head still turned away as Sam lowered himself into the tub with a relieved sigh.

“I’m going to turn off the water, ok?” Fiddleford said. He turned towards the opposite wall, the faucet now in his sights. Twisting the knob, the waters flow halted, dripping a few last drops into the full tub.

“Is the temperature ok?” he asked.

“It’s perfect. I haven’t taken a bath in years; I forgot how nice it feels.” Sam replied, sinking further into the tub, as indicated by the squeak of Stan’s back against the tub.

“I’ll give ya some time to enjoy yourself. Want me to leave the first aid kit in here for ya later?” He asked.

“Yeah, thanks.” Sam replied behind him. Fiddleford retrieved the first aid kit from where they had left it in the living room and returned to the bathroom, keeping his eyes averted to the bathroom floor. He set the kit by the towel, where Sam could easily reach it.

“Take as long as you want, ok? Just yell if ya need anything.” Fiddleford told him as he straightened back up. He made his way back to the bathroom door, hand closing around the door knob. Before he pulled the door shut behind him, Sam called his name.

Still not turning around, he stopped. Sam hesitated for a moment before replying, “Thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime, Sam.” he replies, gentle smile tugging at his lips, “Anytime.”

“You-- uh-- you skipped your class didn’t you?” The guilt was evident in Sam’s voice.

Fiddleford scoffed, “Please, as if I was going to leave you like that.” Sam was far more important than any class. Besides, Fiddleford could afford to miss one class, but that was besides the point.

He hesitated for a moment before shutting the bathroom door behind him, heading back to the living room. He found the stained and scuffed up jacket and decided to throw it in the wash, along with Sam’s shirt before he would attempt to mend it. After that was done, he sat down on the couch heavily, heaving a sigh. Now alone, without having to put on a brave face for Sam, the reality of the situation sunk in.

It was funny, in a morbid sort of way. It was Sam who had been beat up and left in the cold, but yet Fiddleford felt battered as well. Who could have done this to Sam? The marks on his body painted a vivid, disturbing story. One that Fiddleford didn’t want to think about. What disturbed Fiddleford, possibly more so than the state of Sam, was the fact that Sam brushed it off as if it were nothing. He didn’t seem remotely distressed that someone had beaten him so badly. Fiddleford shivered to think that this was a fairly common occurrence for Sam if it warranted no shock from him.

Not for the first time that day, Fiddleford was amazed by Sam. The mysterious man was guarded and didn’t ask for help if he couldn’t help it. Doing so obviously embarrassed the man, but Fiddleford liked to believe that Sam trusted him enough to ask for help.

A thought wormed its way through his thoughts, and Fiddleford suddenly realized that most of Sam’s clothes were either dirty or destroyed. He abruptly got up from the couch and went to his room, rooting through his clothes. At first glance, it occurred to him that Sam wouldn’t fit into his clothes.

Surely Stanford wouldn’t mind lending him some clothes, especially given the circumstances. He let himself into Stanford’s room and rooted through his drawers until he found a pair of jeans and a sweater that should fit Sam. He briefly thought about leaving a note for Ford but decided against it. He’d just tell him about it later when he could properly explain everything to him.

As Fiddleford walked past the bathroom, he could hear sounds of movement from the bathroom. He paused for a moment, listening to make sure Sam was ok when he was able to decipher that Sam was rooting through the first aid kit.

“I grabbed some clothes that’ll fit ya. Just let me know when you’re ready for them.” Fiddleford called from the other side of the door. He heard Sam’s muffled reply. Satisfied by this, Fiddleford returned to the living room and set the articles of clothes beside him.

A few minutes later, Fiddleford heard Sam call his name and he grabbed the clothes beside him before going to the bathroom door. He knocked and let himself in once he heard Sam reply to do so.

Luckily, Stan had a towel wrapped around his waist, and in a sense, looked much better. His hair was still damn, long strands dripping water droplets down his chest. He was clean of all blood and grime, but it only allowed for Fiddleford to see the full extent of his injuries now. Sam reached out, taking the clothes with a thank you. When he didn’t get a reply from Fiddleford, his eyebrows furrowed together. He threw the sweater on over his head, tugging his head through the neck hole, eyes still watching Fiddleford, who only finally realized that Sam noticed him staring.

“Sorry,” he jerked out, turning around so Sam could put his pants on. Once he heard the zipper of the pants, he slowly turned around. Sam was busy toweling his hair one last time, eyes meeting Fiddleford’s with a look that he couldn’t quite understand.

“Are you ok?” he asked, voice a whisper. God, it was such a stupid question. Just look at him! Of course he wasn’t ok. Yet he had to ask anyway.

Sam merely shrugs, like it was the simplest question in the world, “‘ Course. I’m fine; this sort of thing happens all the time. ‘S not a big deal.”

Fiddleford wasn’t convinced that Sam had meant to let his last statement slip. Tears stung Fiddleford’s eyes, not even bothering to try to hold them back. He took a few short steps forward, resting his fingertips on Sam’s arm gingerly, afraid to hurt him further. He shook his head, “No,” he whispered, “Sam, this isn’t normal. People don’t get beat up like this all the time.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow, “What about boxers? Or wrestlers?”

Fiddleford inched forward another step until he was practically inches apart from Sam. But unlike last night when they had been that close, drawn together by desire, it was out of desperation to get Sam to understand that it wasn’t ok to be assaulted and God knows what else.

“That’s not what I mean, Samuel.” he said. “It’s not normal. It shouldn’t be normal.”

This seemed to hit a nerve. Sam winced and broke their gaze, glancing just off to the side. Gaze softening, Fiddleford raised his hand to cupped Sam’s unmarred cheek, brushing his thumb against his cheek.

“Let me help you, Sam.”

Fiddleford never pleaded from anything in his life. At least not seriously, or once he had grown up and realized he couldn’t throw a fit if he didn’t get what he wanted. He had tried not meddling in Sam’s life. He hadn’t pressed when Sam said vague, concerning statements, or brushed off Fiddleford’s concern. But after finding Sam in that alley… he couldn’t even finish that thought. That image was something that would forever be burned into his brain.

He was done being passive. He cared about Sam, and he wasn’t going to just stand by as bad things happened to him.

Sam still had yet to respond to his plea, and Fiddleford expected him to object, claiming he didn’t need any help.

But when Sam’s gaze dropped to the floor, and a sad, vulnerable look overwhelmed his features, he murmured quietly, “There is no help for me.”

Someone this broke Fiddleford’s heart even more than if Sam had insisted he didn’t need help.

He shook his head, “No,” he whispered, voice gradually rising, “No, that’s not true. I can help you; you just have to let me in.”

Sam sighed, finally looking up to meet Fiddleford’s gaze. “You don’t understand. I’ve screwed up, Fiddleford. I’ve made so many mistakes. I made this bed for myself, and now I’ve got to lay in it. I’m-- I’m not safe to be around, and I’m not going to risk you like that.” Each word seemed to pain him. Fiddleford couldn’t recall a time Sam had told him so much about himself or his situation. The details were still vague, but this was the most Sam had mentioned to him.

Slowly, Fiddleford cupped both of Sam’s cheeks, being mindful of the cut across the one cheek. His eyes bore into Sam’s, silently pleading with him to listen to him, to understand just how much Fiddleford cared about him and wanted to help him, that he didn’t want to see him hurt ever again.

“I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care if it’s a risk.” he insists, “I care about you. I want to know you. The real you; the good with the bad. I want to help you, and I don’t ever want a person to lay a hand on you ever again. I can help you, but I can’t unless you let me in.”

Sam’s eyes were wide, too shocked to speak. Even without words, Fiddleford knew he was hesitating, considering. An internal war waged within Sam’s mind and he could tell he wanted to say yes, he was just too frightened. Fiddleford could hardly blame him.

As the silence grew longer, Fiddleford feared he would say no. He was afraid that Sam would leave, get into his car and drive off to God knows where. When Sam sighs and quietly nods, Fiddleford nearly sags in relief.

“Let’s go to the couch, ok?” Sam asked. Fiddleford nodded hurriedly and the pair silently returned back to the couch.

Seated so that they angled towards each other with their knees touching, Sam heaved a sigh, eyes dark with trepidation.

“I guess I should start off by saying that I lied.” he starts, “About a lot of things.”

He paused, as if expecting Fiddleford to yell at him, but Fiddleford’s face remains calm, nodding to encourage him.

“I lied so I can protect myself, as well as you. I’ve gotten into some trouble with some dangerous men, and if they caught wind of where I am, they’d come here. They’d target the people I care about just to get back at me.” Sam blinked for a moment, halting his rambling.

Taking a deep breath, fist visibly clenching. Fiddleford rested his hand over his fist, knowing this had to be hard for him. He could only imagine the thoughts coursing through Sam’s head.

“Ya see, my name isn’t actually Sam.” he said. This surprised Fiddleford. Head tilting slightly, it only barely occurred to him that the sound of a key being inserted into the apartments lock sounded, followed by a creek.

Sam didn’t seem to notice either. His hands were nervously fiddling in his hands and his eyebrows were pinched anxiously.

“My name is actually---”

“Stanley?” His roommates voice spoke behind them. Sam’s head didn’t turn yet, still fixed on his lap.

“Yeah, that. Wait what--!” His head whipped to the person who had asked his name, face paling as he saw Fiddleford’s roommate. Suddenly, the room was filled with a tension so thick that it could be cut with a knife. Fiddleford’s gaze flickered from Sam-- no-- Stan to Ford. Both were staring at each other with a look of shock. Stan spoke again, eyes wide and almost fearful.

“Stanford?”

Wait, what?


	7. Ghost Towns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot shorter than usual, but I’m breaking it up to be two chapters, since a lot is going on. I hope y’all enjoy and as always, let me know what you think! Happy reading!

_I still miss you_   
_There’s no goin’ home_   
_There’s no goin’ home_   
_With a name like mine_   
_I still dream of you._

Fiddleford’s eyes darted between the two men now staring at each other. Sam-- Stan, he reminds himself-- is looking with a shocked expression. Across from him, Stanford wore an expression that Fiddleford had never seen in the three years of knowing his friend. The shock melted away into a look of anger,

Hesitantly, Fiddleford got to his feet. “You two know each other?” He asks. That much was obvious, but he needed some sort of explanation.

Ford crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head away.

“Stanford’s my twin brother.” Stan supplied helpfully, voice small.

Duh! He should have noticed that in the first place. The two practically did have the same face. Stan’s hair was longer and his build was different from Ford’s, but they were all-in-all identical.

He had never seriously considered the possibility of twins since Ford had never mentioned having a brother apart from briefly talking about Shermie.

“Stanford!” Fiddleford says, turning to face his roommate with his hands on his hips, “Ya never told me you had a twin!”

In his periphery, he could see Stan visibly wince. Fiddleford was still staring intently at Ford, forcing him to make eye contact.

He merely shrugged, “It wasn’t worth mentioning.”

Before Fiddleford had a chance to respond, Stan abruptly got to his feet. “This reunion has been touching, but-- uh-- look at the time! Really must be going.” Moving faster than Fiddleford had thought he could manage, Stan hurried to the door. Wordlessly, Ford stepped aside to let him though, his eyes scorching Stan as he passed.

“Stan wait!” Fiddleford exclaimed. The door closed with a resounding ‘thud’. The roommates stood, still and silent for a moment. Fiddleford’s brain was scrambling to connect all the dots, to put some sort of picture together that made sense but came up with only more questions.

He pinched his nose, “Stanford,” He replied, voice exasperated. “What in the world was that? He’s your brother for Christ’s sake!” His voice was steadily rising. Did Ford even look at his brother? Did he not care that he was being cruel? That Stan’s face was busted up? He knew his roommate had a stubborn, aloof streak in him, but this was a whole new level for him.

“He hasn’t been a brother to me for a long time.” Ford says, finally moving from his spot to drop his school bag off at his desk and lower himself into the chair. Luckily, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get to work until he answered Fiddleford’s questions, so he was sat facing Fiddleford.

“What you just did there was cruel, Stanford.” Fiddleford replied, voice dropping lower, sounding more like a scolding parent than a concerned roommate.

This seemed to anger Ford as he was out of his chair again just as soon as he had sat down.

“Fiddleford, you don’t even know him. You don’t know what he’s done, yet you’re taking his side and accusing me of being cruel.” Ford says, voice steadily growing.

Fiddleford seemed to deflate. He did have a point, somewhat. He didn’t know the full story. He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh, “Then enlighten me, Stanford.”

Stanford shook his head, briefly looking away from Fiddleford with a look that Fiddleford knew well enough to tell Stanford was thinking.

“Fine.” Ford finally replies, sitting back down in his chair. Fiddleford decides to sit back down on the couch, seeing as this might be a long story.

“You ever hear of West Coast Tech?” Ford asks.

Had he? West Coast Tech was only the most prestigious school for scientists. Only the brightest minds could get in. “Stanford, everyone’s heard of West Coast Tech.”

“Exactly. When I was 17, I had developed a machine that caught their attention. It was a Perpetual Motion Machine and it was going to be my ticket out of my stuffy town. I was going to be able to study alongside some of the most brilliant minds of our time and become a renowned scientist. Only Stan couldn’t stand to let that happen.

“The night before the recruiters were supposed to come and look at my invention, Stanley went back to the school and broke my machine. The next morning, when I pulled the sheet back, it was smoking and not working. I tried to explain to the recruiters that it had been working yesterday, maybe a fuse had broken or something, but their decision was already made. All my hard work, all of my blood, sweat, and tears was useless. They crossed my name off their list and left.

“I had been devastated. I couldn’t understand what had happened. I tried to go after them, beg them to give me another chance when my foot stepped on a bag. I picked it up and realized that it must have been Stan who sabotaged me. He was always eating toffee peanuts, and had been dumb enough to leave the empty bag by my project.

“When I got home, he was watching tv and playing paddle ball. He didn’t care that he had just ruined my dreams, that he had just single handedly ruined my life! I didn’t want to believe it, so I held up the bag and asked him to explain why his bag was next to my broken project. He didn’t even try to deny it, Fiddleford. He just started yapping about how he had been horsing around, but it was no mistake that my project was broken. We argued. Stan was trying to insist that there was a silver lining; that we could now go treasure hunting together since I wouldn’t be going to West Coast Tech and my Pa overheard from his bedroom.”

Ford shuttered, “I’ve never seen Pa so angry. He grabbed Stan’s shirt, yelling at him. I ran to Stan and I’s bedroom, too upset to stay and listen. I heard the door downstairs open and their fighting grew louder. From my window, I watched as Pa threw Stan outside to the curb, throwing a bag after him. Pa told him he wouldn’t be welcome back until he made a fortune and Stan had the nerve to look up to where I was standing by the window and ask me to stick up for him. I didn’t want to hear it or even see him so I closed the curtains. Still, I could hear Stan, now yelling angrily. He got into his car and sped away from the house. That was four years ago, and I haven’t seen my brother since that day. Until now anyways. It’s his fault why I had to go to this school. I would have had so many opportunities at West Coast Tech, everything I could have ever wanted,, but now I have to work twice as hard just to get a fraction of what I could have had.

“Stan might be my brother by blood, but he’s no brother of mine. All he ever did was lie and cheat. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and unless you want Stan to ruin your life as well, I suggest you just let him go. You’re better off without him.”

When Ford was done telling his story, Fiddleford was silent. So many things were starting to make sense. Why Stan had mentioned that he wasn’t going home for the holidays, how his only family was his mother, despite telling stories of a brother that he used to prank. He wasn’t sure what to make of the story. Stan had never shown even an ounce of selfishness to Fiddleford and the idea that Stan purposely sabotaged Ford’s project just seemed so unlike him.

There was always two sides to a story, and Fiddleford was determined to get the other side from Stan. He stood back up from the couch, eyes set in determination. “I’m going after him.” he replies. He retrieves his coat from the coat rack, feeling Stanford’s eyes burning a hole in his back. As Fiddleford grabs the door knob, Ford finally speaks.

“He’s not worth it, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford stills, considering the harsh words. He thought of all the time he’d spent with Stan. Giggling together in the library as they swapped stories, sitting together on the hill, studying, smoking, laughing… kissing. Stan had somehow wiggled his way into Fiddleford’s life in a way that it felt like he had always been there, that he was meant to be there. He might not be worth it to Ford, but he was damn worth it to Fiddleford.

He didn’t respond to Ford’s word. He fled the apartment and turned down the road. The cold, winter air nipped at his nose, and he tugged his jacket closer to himself. It occurred to him that Stan hadn’t grabbed his jacket from the wash when he left, so he was somewhere with only a sweater to keep him warm.

He just prayed that Stan hadn’t left town yet.

Luckily, he found Stan at the first spot he checked. As he peaked at the parking lot, he found that Stan’s car was still parked in its usual spot, and he could make out a figure sitting in the front seat. Relief washing over him, he hurried to the car and knocked on the passenger side window. Stan jumped at the noise and looked surprised to see Fiddleford there. Reaching over, he pulled on the lock, letting Fiddleford in.

Fiddleford lets himself in, sliding into the seat and closing the door behind him. Stan is pointedly looking away from him, hands lowered to his hands in his lap. Fiddleford is silent, simply staring at the man. Even after finding him in the alley, Stan hadn’t looked like this, shoulders hunched and body tense. His silence spoke more than his words possibly could. He was tired, run-down and hurt. Eyes drinking in Stan’s appearance, Fiddleford couldn’t believe that he was the same man Ford seemed to think he was.

After a few more poignant moments of silence, Stan finally spoke, voice low and cracking with emotion.

“Why did you follow me?”

Fiddleford didn’t hesitate to respond, “I already told ya; I care about ya.” His words are soft, not daring to speak any louder. “Why didn’t ya leave?”

Stan laughed bitterly, “I’m out of gas,” he replies, “And those guys stole my gas money.”

His words made Fiddleford’s heart twist painfully. It was unspoken, but Fiddleford knew that if Stan still had gas, he would have been long gone by now. He would have left without saying goodbye to Fiddleford, but his words from just moments before Stanford came home echoed in his head. Stan probably thought he was doing Fiddleford a favor by leaving, or assumed that after Ford explained what had happened all those years ago that Fiddleford would want nothing to do with him.

Folding his hands in his lap, Fiddleford gently reminded Stan, “You were goin’ to talk to me before Stanford came in. Would ya mind finishing what you were going to tell me?”

Stan seemed to fold in on himself, looking like some frightened animal, “What’s the point?” He whispered. “I should just do everyone a favor and leave town. I just-- I just need to go back to work.” Fear and trepidation seemed to fill his voice at the mention of work, “I just need a few bucks to get gas and then I’ll be out of your hair forever.”

Fiddleford’s hand darted to rest over Stan’s hands, now so tightly clenched around the steering wheel that his bruised knuckles were white. “You’ll do no such thing, Stanley Pines.” he replied sternly. “What I said earlier still stands. I want t’ help ya; ya just have to let me in.”

Stan finally turns to look at him, his hazel eyes full of so much emotion, practically drowning Fiddleford with his gaze, “Why do you care?” he asked, voice quivering, “I lied to you. You didn’t even know my real name until just a few minutes ago. Ford must have told ya what happened; ya know I’m no good to no one, so why are you still here? Why do you still care?”

Fiddleford’s hand around Stan squeezed, begging him to listen to him and understand, “‘Cause you’re my friend.” he says firmly, “‘Cause I don’t think your the bad person ya think ya are. ‘Cause I like being around you. ‘Cause I like you. ‘Cause I know that you’re a good man. I just want to be a friend to you, and friends are there for one another no matter what.”

Stan flinches away from his gaze, fingers curling tighter around the steering wheel.

“I suppose I at least owe ya an explanation after all of this.” Stan replies with a sigh. He finally unfolds himself and sits back in his seat, eyes looking up to the sun visor folded against the roof of his car. The hand not covered by Fiddleford’s folds it down, revealing a picture of two young teenagers. It was safe to assume that it was Stan and his brother, one with an arm slung over the other, finger pointed at his brother. Both appeared happy, one boy with a wide grin, the other with a more sheepish grin. Fiddleford’s heart clenched; even after everything that had happened, even after all of these years, Stan still kept a photo of his twin close by.

“It all started in 1950 somethin’.” Stan began.


	8. Homesick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second half to the last chapter since it would have just been too long to have them all together.
> 
> Edit; thanks to everyone who alerted me I accidentally uploaded the chapter twice (kinda?). My laptop charger is dead so I’m trying to post on mobile; hopefully it’s fixed now!

_Well, I left my home on hollow bones_

_While you were curled and sleeping_

_And I wandered far beneath a concrete star_

_And slept along the highways_

“It all started in 1950 somethin’,” Stan begins. “Gosh, it’s only been four years since I was home but that feels like a lifetime ago.

“Ford and I grew up in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey. We spent a lot of our time as kids on the boardwalk, playin’ pranks as I told ya about before. I didn’t lie to you about any of that, I swear. If we weren’t there on the boardwalk, we were at the beach, just goofin’ around and havin’ fun like kids do.” Stan says this in a wistful tone, and Fiddleford understands now just how much Stanley missed those days. To be able to have a brother, to be able to be carefree and not worry about where he’d go next, or where his next meal will come from. It makes his heart ache for him. He was still so so young, should still have his whole life and countless possibilities in front of him; yet Fiddleford could tell by the look in his face how much those four years has aged him and weighed on his shoulders, how much the world had crushed him.

“Wherever we went, we went together. We were the only friends we had, but when it came down to it, we didn’t need anyone else ‘cause we always had each other’s back. Bullies would pick on Ford for his birth defect, but he always had me by his side, like a shadow. It’s kinda funny though,” Stan laughs bitterly, “The kids that would pick on us were right about me, ya know? They might have picked on Ford ‘cause of his fingers, but that was ‘cause that was the only thing they could think to use against him. They were wrong about him, but they were right about one thing; I was just the dumber, sweatier version of Stanford, even back then.”

Not wanting to interrupt him, but also not wanting him to say such horrible, untrue things about himself, Fiddleford reaches over and rests a hand over top of Stan’s, giving his fingers a squeeze. Stan smiles softly at this, but he wouldn’t even allow himself this comfort; the smile was sad, bitter even.

“One summer, we found a broken, possibly haunted sailboat while exploring one of the coves by the beach. This boat would become our project over the rest of our childhood. We spent so much time fixin’ it up until it looked half decent. Ford was always in the library readin’ up about ships after that, learning how they worked and what not. Our dream was born then too; the two of us were gonna sail away together on the Stan-o-War. We could leave Glass Shard Beach and it’s bullies behind and just be the two of us against the world, traveling and huntin’ for treasures and babes.”

It occured to Fiddleford that while Ford hadn’t ever mentioned his brother, he also hadn’t ever mentioned having any interests in boats or sailing. Ford had always been a rather private fellow, but to not even mention either of those things, when both had obviously been so important to him, at least at one point in his life, struck him as odd.

“Things were great up until we hit high school. Ford’s brain was gettin’ more and more impressive as the years went on, and he won a ton of awards from the school. Still, we were always talkin’ about sailing away together. Ford might have been a genius, but he was still my brother. It wasn’t until we were 17 that everythin’ changed.

“The principal called us down to his office the one day, but when we got there, turns out he had only wanted to talk t’ Ford. I sat down in a chair just outside the door while Ford went in, but I could still hear everythin’. Turns out both our parents were in there as well. The principal had called all them together to tell them about how smart Ford was, and how some fancy school was comin’ to take a look at his project. They said he had the chance to be noticed by them, that Stanford could change the world with his brains. Only Ma thought to ask about me.”

Stan smiled ever so softly at the mention of his mother, and Fiddleford was again reminded of the first time he met. He wondered if he had seen his mother at all since he got kicked out. Fiddleford couldn’t imagine not seeing his Ma for that long.

“The principal said I’d be lucky to graduate high school. That I’d only be good enough for scrapin’ barnacles off the taffy store by the docks. And ya know what, he was right in a way. I may not have stayed in Glass Shard Beach forever like he said I would, but he was right that I’d be lucky to graduate, or only be good at some worthless job scrapin’ barnacles.” Underneath his hand, Fiddleford could feel Stan’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. He wanted to argue with him, point out that he was better than that, but Stan continued before he had the chance.

“I didn’t think Ford would want to go to some stuffy school. At least, I hoped that wouldn’t be true. What that principal had said scared me. All my life, people had been sayin’ things like that about me, but it never bothered me much ‘cause I at least knew I’d always have Stanford by my side. But now there was a chance that he’d be going all the way to the other end of the country to go to some fancy college. It was selfish of me to not want him to go, but the future was changin’ for me, and I was afraid to be left behind.

“I went to the school that night. I hadn’t meant to go there, but I somehow ended up starin’ straight at the project that was gonna take my brother away from me. I was just-- I dunno-- I was just so scared and angry.” Stan’s voice was quivering now, betraying the emotions he was feeling.

“It all built up until I yelled at it, sayin’ it was all it’s fault that this was happenin’ and I pounded on the desk.” For the first time since Stan started telling the story, he finally looked at Fiddleford with a look of desperation in his eyes, practically pleading with him to listen and understand, “I hadn’t touched his project, I swear. I hadn’t intended to break it; I’d never do that to Ford intentionally. But I must have moved the table too much and the damn grate fell off. I panicked and quickly put the grate back on and screwed it back into place. When I left that night, it was still working, I was sure of it. I went back home, forgetting the whole thing even happened and tried to accept the fact that of course West Coast Tech was going to love Ford’s project. They’d take one look at it and practically beg him to come to the school. I was going to lose my brother, but at least Ford would be happy.”

It was finally sinking in now. Fiddleford knew without a doubt that Stan was telling the truth. He knew Stan was a good liar, but if there was one thing he had learned about him in the short few days that he’d spent with him, it was that Stan was genuine and put those he loved before himself. Ford’s project had been an accident, one that Ford still hated his brother for, and one that Stan was still reaping the consequences for.

“When Ford came back the next day, I had been so sure that Ford was going to say he got in, that when he held up my bag off toffee peanuts that I must have left at the school and asked me what it was doing by his broken project, I knew what had happened. I regret breaking his project, even if it were by mistake, but what I regret possibly more was how selfish I had been then. I wasn’t sad that Ford was rejected by his dream school; I had been happy that Ford wasn’t about to leave me. I told him to look on the bright side; at least we could still go treasure hunting together.

“Ford was so angry though, and who could really blame him? I hadn’t even bothered to mention it had been an accident, I’d only mentioned I had been horsin’ around. I hadn’t apologized or tried to see it from his point of view. I was only thinkin’ about myself. He started arguing with me so loud that it woke our parents up. Pa came out and was furious at me for costin’ our family millions of dollars. By this point, I think Ford was too upset and ran to our room or somethin’; I don’t quite remember ‘cause Pa was grabbin’ my shirt and shovin’ me out of the house.

“He said I wouldn’t be able to come home until I made millions to make up what I’d cost our family. Ya know what’s funny though, Fiddleford? He had a bag already packed. He wasn’t just kickin’ me out for what I did; he had been waitin’ for some excuse to get rid of me.

“I was panickin’ now. I looked up to our window where I saw Ford watchin’ me and begged him to tell Pa he was bein’ crazy. He closed the curtains on me, and Pa shut the front door. For the first time in my life, I was truly alone. My fear quickly turned to anger and I threw the bag in my car and swore that they’d rue the day they turned their back on me. I got in my car and drove away from my home. The last time I’d seen the home I’d grown up in, or the family I used to have was when it was shrinking in the reflection of my rearview mirror.”

Stan was looking at his lap now and Fiddleford finally took the opportunity to speak up, wanting to know more. Needing to know more.  

“So what did you do? What have you been doin’ since that happened?” he asks softly, squeezing Stan’s hand again, hoping to convey all the sympathy he felt without the need for words. Something told him that Stanley wouldn’t want to hear “I’m sorry” or “Oh gosh, that’s awful!”

“I tried a bunch of things, wanting to make those millions so I could come home, so I could make up for what I did.” Stan explains, “I tried treasure huntin’ with some rinky metal detector I found by the beach, but that didn’t last long. I saw a sign on the beach that inspired me; I started comin’ up with different inventions to sell t’ people. Ya may have heard of some of them, I had been able to afford some commercials back then; Sham Totals, Rip-Offs, Stan Co. Vacuums.” Stan’s voice trailed off and Fiddleford thought back. He vaguely remembered hearing a commercial for one of them back when he and Ford had been starting college together. Ford had gotten so angry he had turned the TV off, and it had never made sense to Fiddleford how a commercial could get him so riled up, until now anyways.

“They were all cheaply made though, and as people started figuring that out, they’d chase or ban me from the state. So I kept movin’, kept changin’. I kept comin’ up with new ideas, but they all dried up either due to lack of funds, or because I’d just find myself banned from another state. Eventually, I started to get involved in some new gigs. They started out innocent enough. Some guy would give me a package and tell me where to deliver it to. It was as simple as that, and it was damn good, easy money. Eventually, I got the dumb idea to take a look at what they were havin’ me move, and I realized I could just take it and sell it for myself and make even more money.”

He laughs bitterly, and Fiddleford’s apprehension grew, “Turns out the guys weren’t too happy when they found out I had taken their package for myself, and I found myself on the run. Some found me, some didn’t; I’m not even really sure why the ones that did find me didn’t kill me on the spot, but I do have a few scars to remind me not to do that again. I turned away from smuggling, but I had realized just how much money was in doin’ things that were illegal. I’m not proud of myself for the things I did, but after a job, I usually had enough money to pay for gas, food, and even a motel room for a while afterwards. It was easy money, and I couldn’t turn that down. There was no way I was going to earn millions with a regular job, so it was my best chance to finally be able to go back home.”

Fiddleford squeezed his hand tighter, and finally, Stan looked back up at him again, eyes slightly widening as he took in the worried, sad expression on Fiddleford’s face.

“Is that what you do here?” Fiddleford asked, not daring to speak above a whisper. “Stanley, what happened to you last night?”

Stan shrugs, and his casual reaction to getting beat up so violently felt like he was stabbing daggers into Fiddleford’s chest.

“Nothin’ unusual. People usually aren’t too happy with someone in my line of work. That wasn’t the first time somethin’ like that had happened.”

Fiddleford felt like he was going to vomit, “Stanley, what is ‘your line of work’, exactly?”

Stan finally turned away, shoulders rising and making him suddenly look very small. Fiddleford needed him to know that he wasn’t judging him for what he did; he was just a concerned friend who didn’t want something to happen to him. The hand covering Stan’s fell away, in favor of squeezing Stan’s shoulder, “Please, Stan, I’m not going to judge you. I know you want to come clean. You’ve gotten this far, and I don’t think any differently about ya, and I ain’t about to start now.”

Stan heaves a heavy sigh and finally looks back towards Fiddleford’s direction, eyes still averted from Fiddleford. He gulps, before finally choking out, “I’m-- I’m a whore.”

Fiddleford is silent. His mind is struggling to accept what Stan said, and this only seems to encourage Stan to start rambling, to scramble to explain himself. “Listen though, it’s not like I want to be some whore. It’s just-- it’s just it’s easy money, ok? I don’t care what I have to do; I just need to get that money so I can make it up to my family for what I did, ok? I know you probably hate me now, and I don’t blame ya? I get it; I lied to you about who I was, and now ya know all the things I’ve done. I ruined Ford’s chances to go to his dream school, I screwed things up for my family, I’ve done countless illegal things, and I’m no good to nobody.” His voice shakes, and when Fiddleford finally looks at him, he can see the tears welling in his eyes, and starting to spill over, shamelessly burning a track down his bruised face, “I won’t blame ya if ya never want t’ see me again. You’re too good of a person to want to hang out with the likes of me. I just--” His voice abruptly halted as Fiddleford finally broke out of his stupor. He reaches out to Stan, hands cupping his cheeks. Stan flinches, and Fiddleford’s heart breaks even more for him.

When was the last time Stan had known a kind touch? When was the last time he had had someone to confide in, to share his troubles with? Had he ever had someone who had held him and told him everything was going to be ok? That he wasn’t the awful person he thought he was?

Stan was simply staring back at him, mouth parted as if he wanted to say something, but was too shocked. Fiddleford could practically see the cogs in his brain turning as he tried to figure out what Fiddleford was doing.

Smiling sadly, Fiddleford brushed the tears off his cheek with his thumb with as much tenderness as he could muster. His hands drift away from his face, instead wrapping around his shoulders as Fiddleford leans over the middle of Stan’s car to pull him close.

Stan is stiff in the hug, but Fiddleford doesn’t relent. He hugs him to him tightly, trying to also be mindful of the various bruises painting his body.

“Life has been so cruel to you, Stanley Pines,” Fiddleford whispers, “You’ve been dealt such an unfair hand, and yet you’ve never given up. You’ve done things you don’t want to do; things that cause you pain, all to make money for a family that turned their back on you.”

The tension in Stan’s shoulders finally ebbs away, but whether it was cause Stan was relaxing into the hug, or because he was just so exhausted, Fiddleford couldn’t tell.

“It’s pointless now,” Stan replies bleakly, “Ford hates me; I was a fool to think he’d ever forgive me. I just-- I just needed to think that if I could make enough money, I could come home. I needed that to be true, ‘cause that’s the only thing that’s been keepin’ me going. Now I got nothin’.”

There was something so final in his words. It sent a chill down Fiddleford’s back, and not for the first time, he was scared for Stan.

He pulls away from him, hands now firmly planted on Stan’s shoulder, practically forcing him to meet his eyes with the intensity of his gaze.  

“You don’t have nothin’.” He says, “You have me. That ain’t changin’.”

Slowly, the corners of Stan’s mouth curls into a small, tender smile. Fiddleford cups the side of his cheek and leans close, placing a kiss upon his forehead.

“Thank you for telling me the truth, Stanley,” he says. Stan’s eyes dart down again nervously.

“You’re not mad?” he asks timidly.

Fiddleford laughs, “Of course not. I would have probably done the same thing, given- ah-- your situation.”

Stan looks relieved, and finally relaxes. “Thank God,” he whispers. “Ford probably hates me more than ever now, huh?”

Fiddleford shakes his head, “No,” he says, “You two are just long overdue for a talk. A real talk-- one where your father isn’t goin’ to be around to interrupt. If ya’ just explain to him what ya’ told me, I think he’ll understand.”

Stan instantly looks horrified at this suggestion, and Fiddleford quickly adds, “I don’t mean everythin’. I know that’s a lot to ask for right now. I just mean to explain what happened with the project, and I think it’ll go a long way if ya tell him that you’ve been tryin’ to work this whole time to fix your mistake.”

He pauses, then hesitantly adds, “I think you’ll feel better if ya do tell him everything, but in your own time, whenever you’re comfortable.”

Stan considers his words, and slowly, nods. Fiddleford takes Stan’s hand again, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Come back to the apartment with me.” he asks him softly.

Once again, Stan’s body seems to fill with tension again, this time shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I-I don’t know…” he says, apprehensive.

Fiddleford offers him a soft smile of encouragement, “I’ll be right there to help ya, if ya need it. I promise.” He turns his hand, slipping it into Stan’s and interlacing their fingers together. Stan’s gaze drops to look at it, a slight blush painting his cheek. With a sigh, he looks back up to Fiddleford and merely nods.

Somehow Stan always seems to amaze him. Despite everything, despite having no reason to trust anyone, he’s willing to put his trust in him. He’s willing to come back and talk with the brother who stood by and watched him get thrown out of the house. He’d been hurt more times than Fiddleford would probably ever know, yet he was willing to risk getting hurt again in the hopes that Ford would hear him out and forgive him. He smiles softly and cups his cheek with the hand not currently wrapped in Stan’s, and leans in once more, this time pressing his lips to Stan’s in a quick, yet soft kiss, hoping to portray everything he couldn’t yet put into words.

“Come on, Stan,” he replies, “Let’s go back home.”

As the two exit the car and make their way back to the apartment, Fiddleford intertwines their fingers once more as they walk, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze.

“By the way,” Fiddleford adds. Stan glances up to look at him curiously, “Stan is much more of a fitting name for you than Sam.”

Their chuckles filled the quiet, winter air as they walked hand-in-hand back to the apartment, ready to face whatever waits for them. 


	9. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford and Stan finally have a talk.

_It’s hard to say when things have run their course_   
_While in the fog and still afraid_   
_And once you see what lies behind a mask_   
_That mask will never look the same_

After Fiddleford left, Stanford’s gaze remained glued to where he had watched Fiddleford leave, trying to comprehend everything that had happened. Stanley had been here, in his apartment, looking quite chummy with his roommate. Not even just that. Stanley had lied to his roommate-- his best friend! He had given him a fake name, and probably some fake back story too! It was probably all just some attempt to worm his way back into Ford’s life again, but Ford wasn’t going to fall for it. 

Suddenly things were beginning to make sense though. Some of the stories that Fiddleford had told him seemed to suddenly click into place. It had been so obvious all along! Stanley had always loved building a house of cards around him whenever he fell asleep at his desk. It was too coincidental that Fiddleford had tried the same prank after meeting some ‘mysterious stranger’. 

Fiddleford. Shit, he hadn’t even considered how he was going to feel once he realized that Stanley had lied to him to get to Ford. He wasn’t the best at picking up on subtle signs, but even a blind person could tell that Fiddleford had really grown to like him, both as a friend and as more than that. 

New anger ignited in Stanford’s heart. How dare his twin show up here! How dare he bring Fiddleford into this mess! How dare he con his too-kind-for-his-own-good friend into liking him! The anger bubbled as his thoughts rambled, and Stanford did what he did best; he studied. He finally broke his gaze away from the spot it had been fixed at and threw himself into his text books. It was Stan’s fault he was at this shitty school in the first place. Now he had to work twice as hard here. If only he had been able to go to West Coast Tech. He would have been practically drowning in opportunities. 

He realized at this point that he had been reading the same sentence over and over. His thoughts were still revolving around Stanley. Even when he wasn’t here, he somehow seemed to mess things up. He’d wasted enough time with him, he decided. He threw him out of his thoughts and resolved himself to focusing on his studies. Finals week was fast approaching; he couldn’t afford a slip up now, especially so close to graduation. 

A professor of his had presented him with an opportunity not long ago. He had read Ford’s latest paper, and told him about the possibility of getting a grant to further his studies. Four years of busting his ass was finally paying off, and he wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him by. 

He eventually found himself so engrossed in his studies that he hadn’t noticed the sound of keys unlocking the front door. It wasn’t until he heard the tell-tale creek of the old door opening that he noticed. He turned around and sat Fiddleford poking his head into the apartment. Where he was expecting a look of hurt, or maybe even shock or betrayal, he found a look that was very pointedly a look warning him. But of what? He had seen that look on his mother often enough in his childhood to know what it was. But what warranted such a look from his best friend? 

He pushes the door open all the way finally and steps into the apartment, stopping and turning back to the door again, expectantly. Ford followed his gaze, and was surprised to see Stanley following Fiddleford, hands stuffed deep into his pocket. 

“Hey Ford.” He says, timidly. Ford merely stared back, not understanding why he was back here. 

“Stanley.” he finally says in reply. It’s not a greeting, and wasn’t meant to be one. He was merely acknowledging that Stanley was there, though he hoped he wouldn’t be much longer. Both he and Fiddleford had important work to do. 

Stan visibly gulps and his gaze flickers to Fiddleford. Ford looks to his roommate, and is confused to see him smile encouragingly to his twin. Whatever was going on, Fiddleford was actively apart of it. The familiar feeling of betrayal reared its ugly head somewhere in Ford’s gut, though he shoved it down. Surely Fiddleford wasn’t so blind that he actually believed whatever lie Stan had come up with? 

“Can, uh, can we talk?” Stan tries again. Ford has half a mind to outright deny him, to tell him to leave, but from the corner of his eye, he can tell that Fiddleford is looking at him again with the same warning expression from earlier. Stanley, for what it’s worth, at least has the sense to look nervous. Sighing, he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Fine.” he grumbles, “We can talk. In private.” This time, his statement is directed more at Fiddleford. Whatever Stan wanted to talk about, it was a family matter. His brother had already involved, and obviously brainwashed, his roommate enough. Ford was putting his foot down. He made a mental note that he’d have to talk some sense into Fiddleford later. It wasn’t like he could really blame him. After all, he had been fooled by Stan for his entire childhood. 

He watched as Fiddleford stepped closer to Stan, laying a hand on Stan’s arm as he whispered something Ford couldn’t hear into his ear. Having enough of this, Ford abruptly stood and motioned for Stan to follow him as he retreated back to his room. Once Stan was inside, he closed the door behind them, shooting a glance at Fiddleford that clearly read ‘Stay away’. 

Ford turned back to Stan, once again folding his arms over his chest as he fixed a glare at his twin. Stan looked like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and body tense. For the first time, Ford really looked at him. His hair was longer now (a mullet? Really, Stanley?), a layer of scruff adorned his chin, and he noticed Stan was wearing his clothes. This briefly made the anger rear its ugly head again until he noticed the various cuts and bruises scattered across Stan’s face. 

He could make out that he sported a bruised lip, and his nose didn’t look particularly great (which really said something considering the Pines family had rather unfortunate nose genes). Briefly, he wondered what other injuries might be hidden beneath Stan’s clothing. How hadn’t he noticed them before? They looked fairly fresh; the skin around some of the cuts was still jagged, with only minimal amounts of clotting to indicate it’s had time to heal. He doubted Fiddleford would be the cause of such marks, so had someone else been the cause of them? 

He hadn’t given much thought to what Stan was doing after he left home. A short while after it had happened, he had seen commercials for some silly products Stan was trying to sell, so he just told himself that Stan was fine, and resolved never to think about him. He had been better off without Stan there to weigh him down, and Stan would benefit from some independence. 

Now that he was face to face with his twin, he was forced to acknowledge that maybe he had been wrong. Maybe his twin hadn’t been fine. 

Some of his resolve shrank at his observations, and his glare softened ever so slightly. 

They simply stood, staring at each other for what felt like ages. Ford was at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say at a time like this? Prior to noticing Stan’s bruises, he might have yelled at him, but he found he didn’t have the heart to do so anymore. Stan had lost his deer-in-the-headlights look somewhat, and looked rather nervous. 

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Stan finally spoke. 

“I’m sorry.” 

His voice is so quiet, whispered so low that Stanford barely heard him. Of all the things he had expected Stan to say (give excuses, beg him to let him stay, etc.), he hadn’t expected what sounded like to be a genuine apology. 

When Ford didn’t reply, too shocked for words, Stan pressed on, “I never meant to break your project, honest. I just--” Stan trailed off, tongue poking out from between two bruised lips, looking deep in thought. He gazed back to Ford with a look that practically begged him to listen to him, to believe him. If this was a lie, it was his best lie yet.

“You heard that principal! I had no future and you were going places. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for ya, I really was, but I had never considered a future without you. It had always been just you and me, ya know? That the fear I felt was overwhelming and well-- I did stupid things because of it.

“I knew once those fancy college guys saw what you could do, you’d be all the way across the country, far, far away from my sorry ass. I lost my cool that night, and banged on the table once out of retaliation. I hadn’t meant to. I was just so-- so lost. The vent popped off your project, but it was still working. I put the vent back on and double checked that it was still working before I covered it back up again. I know now that I should have told you what happened when I got home, but I honestly thought that everything was okay and working.”

Stanley was now talking with a tone of desperation, and Ford was too shocked to reply. An accident? Was it really? He wanted to believe Stan, even if that meant that everything that had happened since then was because of a stupid mistake, but the untrusting side of him whispered that Stan couldn’t be trusted. He had already betrayed him once; he could be lying right now. 

“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did when you came back the next day. I was selfish.” He sighs, looking guilty and remorseful, “I cared more that I’d have my brother by my side more than I cared about whether or not he was happy. I know this now, and if I could go back in time, I’d change everything.” 

He said this with a note of finality, looking almost drained from his desperate speech. Finally, Ford realized he needed to speak up. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner? Why’d you leave?” he asked, voice low. His brain was still struggling to analyze everything Stan had told him. If this had been some equation, he would have been able to understand it, but he had never been good when it came to social interactions. He’d been angry at Stanley for so long, convinced that he had intentionally destroyed his project, but now the seed of doubt had been sewn, and he was unsure now. 

Stan laughed curtly, “Stanford, I didn’t leave. Pa kicked me out; already had a bag packed and everythin’. He told me I wasn’t welcome until I made millions to make up for the millions I cost the family.” He laughs again, sounding even more bitter the second time, “I get it now though. He wasn’t giving me some condition to come back. He knew I was never going to make millions, no matter how hard I worked for it. He got what he wanted; he got rid of his useless son, the spare twin he had never wanted in the first place.” 

Ford winced at this, understanding this sentiment too well. It was no secret his parents hadn’t expected twins. Hell, his father hadn’t even put in the effort to come up with different names for them. Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. It made sense, and oh how Ford wished that wasn’t the case. Anger and resentment was something easy to hang onto, but to realize now that it had been a mistake? One that had cost them four years? That was something that was hard to grasp. 

A sigh breaks through his thoughts, “I know you probably hate me. And I don’t blame ya. Don’t worry, I’ll leave ya alone, and won’t ever bother ya again.” Stan moves to push past Ford, going for the door. 

A six-fingered hand darts out and seized his wrist, and Ford realizes after the fact that it had been his hand that grabbed his brother. 

“Stan, wait…” he says. 

Stan turns to face him, and something about his expression makes Ford’s heart ache more. He looks resigned, as if he’s expecting Ford to turn around and curse him out one more time before throwing him out. 

“I’ve never hated you,” he insists, “I never could hate you.” 

His voice betrays him, cracking under the emotions he’s not used to feeling. Neither of them had ever been particularly fond of being vulnerable, yet here they were, as vulnerable as a crab without its shell. 

Ford notices Stan’s confused face, and continues, “I was angry at you, yes. Really angry, in fact, but I never hated you. I-- I had no idea what was going on. I thought you had intentionally destroyed my project. I told myself that you were Stanley; you were the twin with the personality. You’d be fine and could handle anything. I had to believe that, because that was better than realizing that I might have been wrong, and that you had to pay the price as a result.” 

Stan’s looking at him with a look of shock and confusion, and after briefly gazing at the cuts and bruises on his brothers face, Ford pressed on, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I see now I’ve been wrong about a lot of things.” 

It’s hard for him to admit, but Stan looked ready to walk out the door, and damn if Ford wasn’t afraid of what would happen once he did, if his bruises and cuts are any indication of the life he’s been living. 

At his admission, Stanley sniffles, and mumbles something about allergies (which they both knew he didn’t have). 

“So-- you really didn’t mean to break my project? It was all just an accident?” Ford asks. 

Stan nods, “Of course it was! I was upset, but I’d never intentionally destroy something that I knew was so important to you. You’re my brother, Stanford.” 

Stan’s words are genuine, as far as Ford could tell. He spoke with a desperation that practically begged Ford to believe him, and Ford found that he did. 

“Hey, why the long face?” Stan asks. Ford shakes his head, rubbing his forehead with a six fingered hand. 

“All these years,” he murmurs quietly, “All these years, I’ve missed my brother.” Ok, maybe he hadn’t let himself think of Stan that often, but his thoughts had often betrayed him in the four years they’d been apart. He’d see someone drinking Stan’s favourite soda and think of him, or a song would come on the radio that would remind him of a time when things were simpler and he’d had his twin by his side. He’d tried to ignored these thoughts, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t missed him, as much as he hadn’t wanted to, “And it was all over some dumb mistake.” 

Stan appears crestfallen at this, and briefly, it occurs to Ford that it’s possibly over his wording. Dumb mistake. Yes, it had been a dumb mistake on Stan’s part, but it was Ford who had also made mistakes. 

“I thought you sabotaged me! I just felt… so betrayed, Stan.” He took another deep breath, hoping that he was wording things right, “I stood by and let Pa kick you out, and what’s worse, I hadn’t even bothered to contact you at all in four years. I didn’t bother to hear your side out. I’m so sorry, Stan.” 

Stan looks shocked by this for a brief moment, but he seems to notice the troubled expression on his face and steps closer to his twin, offering a timid smile. 

“Hey, don’t worry about it, Sixer.” 

Sixer. He hadn’t heard that nickname in a while. A laugh bubbles from him and he’s looking at Stan. 

“Are you going to be sticking around?” Ford asks, almost nervous to hear his reaction. Their relationship was far from fixed, but it was a damn good start, and Ford didn’t want to lose his brother again. 

“Uh…” Stan trails off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Ah, so this really was going to be it then, huh? 

Stan’s demeanor changes, probably noticing the sad expression on Ford’s face. He appears to be thinking, and Ford briefly wonders what he’s thinking about right now. 

Finally, he shrugs. “Are ya kidding? Of course!” His words are spoken with too much confidence, and Ford knows enough to know he’s nervous. Hell, he is too, but at least it was something. 

“High six?” Stan says hesitantly, raising a hand. 

Stanford smiles fondly, “High six.” He raises his own hand, and finds his hand lingering longer than it should, wanting to make sure that this really was real, that this hadn’t been some wishful dream. But Stan’s hand was solid in his, his hands a bit more worn than he remembers, and not for the first time, Ford wonders what his brother had been up to. 

But the future was looking promising. They’d have plenty of time to ask about the past. For now, they could just focus on being brothers.


	10. Personal Giants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fiddleford is shook by spaghetti.

_You held me up_  
_When I was drowning_  
_And wrapped me in your spare blankets_  
_And you held my head_  
_While I lay broken_  
_And told me I would sleep soundly_  
_And that life goes on_

Fiddleford watches as the door shuts behind Stanford and Stanley and follows suit, retreating to his own room and shutting the door. If the brothers were going to talk, he’d give them the space they wanted (even if it took all his self restraint to not press his ear against the wall that separated his room for Stanfords). 

Both to his relief and disappointment, the walls were surprisingly sound proof, given that these dorms were owned by the school (a school that bragged about being mostly bug free, for that matter). At least he wouldn’t be tempted to listen if he heard their voices, but on the opposite side of this, it meant he had absolutely no idea what was going on in the next room. 

Huffing impatiently, Fiddleford pulled a notebook from his backpack on his bed, resigning himself to at least get some work done.

It felt like hours later when he finally heard the door to Stanford’s room creek open. Fiddleford marked his place in his notes and quietly stood up from his desk. He cracked his door open, being careful to crack it open without causing it to creek. Pressing his face to the crack, he watched at the brothers walked down the hallway. Both of their body language seemed relaxed. They were both smiling at each other, and one of them must have cracked a joke since they both started laughing back and forth.

The sight of the two brothers getting along warmed his heart. So their talk had gone well. Thank God. He shut the door quietly, and leaned against the door heaving a sigh. He wasn’t naive; he knew their relationship was still fragile. Four years of radio silence couldn’t just be erased by one conversation, but it was at least a start. 

Deciding to give them some time to themselves, Fiddleford returned to his desk to finish studying for the night before joining the two in the living room. 

Studying went without a hitch once he finally concentrated on the material enough to cancel out the sounds of the brother’s low voices from the other room. However, while he could easily block out noises, blocking out smell was something he couldn’t quite muster. 

A sweet, heavenly smell started drifting to his nose; garlic and tomato. He hadn’t realized he was hungry until this moment. A loud gurgle from his stomach alerted him that he wasn’t going to be able to focus on his studies while that scent was filling his apartment. Deciding he’d given them enough time to themselves, he stood and opened the door. The smell was even stronger out there. 

“Hmmm,” he hummed as he deeply inhaled. “What’s that smell? It’s heavenly.”

As the hallway opened up to the living room, he quickly spotted Stanford at his desk, half turned towards Stanley’s direction, by the kitchen tending to a large pot and pan over the stove. 

“Perfect timing, Fiddlesticks!” Stanley replied, turning to look towards him with a grin that made Fiddleford’s heart skip a beat. It had been several days since he had seen that smile on Stanley’s face. “I’m makin’ dinner for you nerds. Ford was tellin’ me about how you’re always gettin’ on him to eat and take breaks.” 

Fiddleford chuckled, glancing to Ford who was smiling fondly, “Yeah, that sounds about right. Whatcha makin’?” he asks, approaching the stove to investigate, his stomach grumbling even louder as he noticed spaghetti cooking in the pot, and pasta sauce in the pan. 

“I don’t know much about makin’ meals, so you’re gettin’ spaghetti.” Stan reports. Fiddleford’s eyes meets his, and he notices that Stan’s eyes were softer than he had ever seen, with a message that Fiddleford knew loud and clear; ‘thank you’. He smiles softly, relieved that the talk went well, and that he hadn’t given Stan any bad advice. 

“It smells just like Ma’s spaghetti,” Ford pipes up. 

Stan snorts at that, “Don’t be expectin’ it to taste like hers.” he warns, “I can’t promise this is goin’ to taste any good.” 

It was Fiddleford’s turn to snort now, “I can guarantee you that it’ll still be better than anythin’ we’re used to. I’m afraid neither of us are very good cooks. I recall Stanford tried to make pasta once, but it ended up gettin’ burnt seein’ as he forgot about it while he was workin’ on a project.” 

Ford sputtered at this, throwing out several excuses, which only made Fiddleford and Stan laugh fondly. 

“Sounds like you guys are in need of a cook then,” Stanley says, almost as if to himself. 

“Assumin’ that burning noodles isn’t something that runs in the Pines family, the job is yours.” Fiddleford teased. Stan seemed pleased by this. Fiddleford took up a chair by the small dinner table that they rarely used and was content to listen to the two brothers idoly chatting at each other, occasionally throwing in a comment or joke in.

It was odd, he thought, Stanley almost seemed as if he completed the apartment. Their tiny space finally felt like a home. 

Stanley soon finished the pasta, and called for them to get some grub. Ford finished scribbling off a sentence before rising from his desk, joining Stan and Fiddleford by the stove to dish out their pasta. They pulled up an extra chair from Fiddleford’s desk and sat down at the table. 

Turns out, Stan was not a terrible cook. Sure, Fiddleford occasionally had to pick out a long strand of brown hair from his noodles, but other than that, it was delicious; certainly better than anything he or Ford could make. All of them must have been hungrier than they realized since the dinner was mostly silent as they devoured their plates, and then another as Stan had made enough food to feed a small army. 

Once dinner was over, Stan volunteered to wash the dishes. Fiddleford vaguely wondered if he was trying to prove that he was useful, and tried to argue with him saying he didn’t need to as he already made dinner. Stan was having none of it, so Fiddleford relented, at least for today. He and Ford returned to their usual spots at night- their desks (Fiddleford having to retrieve his study material from his room before hand). The room was filled with a comfortable silence, save for the clanking as Stan washed the dishes. 

A content smile tugged at Fiddleford’s lips. As quickly as things had spiraled into chaos, first with finding Stan in the alley, then to the whole four-year-old dispute between the brothers, things resolved themselves. Somehow, it seemed as though Stan fit perfectly into their little home. Fiddleford was still relatively concerned that Stan was trying to prove that he could be useful to them, but judging by the quiet humming coming from Stan’s direction, he was feeling quite content himself and decided to leave that as a battle for another day. For now, they could all use a nice, quiet night. 

Once Stan finished with the dishes, he plopped himself down on the couch with a rather loud grunt-sigh hybrid. 

“Mind if I watch some tv?” Stan asks. Both Fiddleford and Ford reply that they didn’t mind. The tv flips on, and the sound of a M*A*S*H episode fills the comfortable silence. 

The night passes like this; Fiddleford and Ford quietly studying at their desks, with Stan comfortably seated on the couch, occasionally laughing or making some comment on the show he was watching. 

Eventually, the night grew late and Stan flipped the tv off and rose to his feet. “Alright, nerds,” he says, mid-yawn, “It’s gettin’ late. Time to hit the hay.” 

Ford doesn’t look up from his desk as he groans, “Five more minutes.” he said, bringing his pen up to his mouth and chewing on it absentmindedly. 

Fiddleford chuckles as Stan rolls his eyes fondly, “You know five minutes turns into an all nighter. Come on, Poindexter. You can go at it again tomorrow.” 

It was clear, even to someone who hadn’t known them in their childhood, that this had been a normal occurance for them at one point. Despite the four years of absence, they easily fell back into this routine. Ford groaned, but closed his notebook. 

Colour him impressed. 

It usually took him a while to get Ford to bed, if he even did at all. He watched, jaw slack as Ford got up from his desk, and made his way to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Stan watched him go, shaking his head dramatically. 

“Well, I’ll see you two tomorrow,” Stan replies, rising from the couch. 

Fiddleford catches his hand as Stan moves towards the door. 

“Stay for the night?” Fiddleford asked, suddenly feeling sheepish for asking. The idea that Stan was going to leave to spend yet another cold night in his car, before Fiddleford had gotten a chance to mend his coat, was not something he was happy with. 

Stan looked shocked by his request as well, but the shock melted to a shy smile, blush tinting his cheeks, as he nodded. 

Fiddleford mirrored his expression, face burning in what he was certain was a blush. Fiddleford led him back to his room, very aware of how he had yet to drop Stan’s hand from his hold. Stan didn’t protest, so Fiddleford didn’t think much of it. Ford walks past them, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and from the strain of staring at his work all night. He mumbles a good night, his words muffled by a yawn. 

“Good night,” Fiddleford and Stan chimed together before retreating to Fiddleford’s bedroom. They closed the door behind them, and suddenly they found themselves staring at each other, not sure how to proceed from here. Sure, Fiddleford had made out with Stan just a few days prior, but the bruises still painting his face was all too much of a reminder of what Stan had been through. 

He hadn’t told him details of what had happened that night, but Fiddleford could guess what had happened based off of the vague details Stan had given, as well as the state of his pants when he had found him. He had mainly asked Stan to stay over because he didn’t want Stan spending a night in his car ever again. Sure, the idea of resuming where they had left off on the hill several days before sounded nice, more than nice, but Fiddleford didn’t want to do anything that could possible remind Stan of the night that had happened. 

Clearing his throat, “Lets see if I can find some PJs for you.”

Stan seems relieved that Fiddleford finally spoke. Fiddleford rooted through his drawers, and finally picked out a fairly large t-shirt, as well as a pair of sweatpants that should fit Stan. He laid them across the bed for Stan. 

“You can change in here; I’m going to change and brush my teeth in the bathroom.” Fiddleford tells him, offering a smile. Stan nods quietly, and Fiddleford promptly retrieves his usual set of PJs before heading to the bathroom. 

It only took a few minutes to change out of his clothes and brush his teeth. He neatly folded his clothes and stashed them in his hamper in the laundry room before returning to his room. He knocked on the door, and waited until Stan’s voice sounded from the other side, telling him to come in. 

After closing the door behind him, Fiddleford found Stan standing by the bed, the clothes he had previously been wearing in his arms. Fiddleford took them and tossed them to his closet, mentally noting to put them in the hamper tomorrow. He moved towards the bed, and Stan seemed to follow his lead, thankfully. They pulled back the covers and crawled into Fiddleford’s bed together. 

Rolling over to face Stan, their faces were only inches apart, teasing a soft smile from the both of them. Fiddleford reached out, taking Stan’s hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

“You doin’ ok, Stanley?” Fiddleford asked softly. The name Stanley still felt foreign, yet at the same time, it had a nice ring to it. 

Stan’s lips strained briefly in a too-wide smile, but it quickly relaxed seeing as the action tugged at his split lips. 

“‘Course I am! Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Fiddleford squeezed his hand, “You’ve had quite an eventful day today.” He didn’t need to remind Stan of this, but found himself doing so anyway, if not to reason with Stan. He didn’t want the answer Stan thought he wanted to hear. He wanted Stan to be honest with him.

“I know your talk with Stanford went well enough, but I’m still concerned. Troubles don’t just disappear.” Fiddleford carefully said, his eyes studying Stan’s reaction. 

Stan is silent for a moment and Fiddleford briefly wonders if he’s going to dismiss the topic. 

Stan finally heaves a sigh, eyebrows knitting together thoughtfully, “I guess— I’m just worried that Ford and I are only on better terms because he felt sorry for me.”

He briefly looked to Fiddleford expectantly, but when Fiddleford nodded for him to continue, he elaborated, “His whole expression changed when he noticed my face. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad the talk went well but I’m still scared that Ford is goin’ to go back to hatin’ me after my face heals.”

Quietly, almost too quiet for Fiddleford to hear, he adds, “Or I’ll do something else to ruin everything before that happens.” 

Fiddleford ticks at Stan, reminding him of his mother, “Stanley, did you tell him the truth?” Stan nods, “Ok, then he knows what really happened now. Ford ain’t the type to just forgive someone because he feels bad for ‘em. Sides, you got something now that you didn’t have back then.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow at him, earning a warm chuckle from Fiddleford.

“You got me to beat some sense into that thick brain of his.”

Stan chuckles, a genuine chuckle that warms Fiddleford’s chest. 

Slowly, Stan’s smile begins to fade, “How long is this going to last?” 

His voice is barely a whisper. Fiddleford cocks an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” 

Stan doesn’t flinch as he replies, “I can’t obviously stay here forever; I don’t have a penny to my name. Not to mention those guys are probably still out to get me.” His tone trailed off and there was a distant look to his eyes. Fiddleford couldn’t really blame him. The situation, while infinitely better than it had been from the start of the day, was still fragile. He supposed he would feel the same if he was in Stan’s place. 

“Well--” Fiddleford begins, “We can take care of those guys. If you’re worried about cash, we can look together to get you a job. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay here with us.” As much as he wanted to speak for Ford and tell Stan he could stay, it wasn’t just his apartment.

Stan looks apprehensive. “I don’t know, Fidds…” he draws out. 

Fiddleford simply squeezes his hand again, “Just think about it, ok? You’ve had a long day; get some sleep.” 

Stan nods silently and Fiddleford is satisfied by this response. This would buy him at least some time to discuss plans with Stanford. He releases Stan’s hand to roll over, setting his alarm clock for his class the next day. With his back towards Stan, he distantly feels the bed shift as Stan scoots closer. An arm drapes around Fiddleford’s waist as he begins to settle back into bed. Smiling affectionately, Fiddleford scoots back towards Stan, settling once he feels Stan’s chest against his back. It felt right with Stan’s arm comfortably draped over his waist, holding him close. He sighs peacefully, feeling sleeps fingers slowly pulling him into slumber. 

Stan nuzzles his face into the crook of Fiddleford’s shoulders, his warm breath on his neck. 

“Thank you, Fiddleford,” he whispers softly. Fiddleford’s hand finds Stan’s and gives it a squeeze. He couldn’t remember a time he had felt so at peace, so content in life. 

It didn’t feel right to say ‘you’re welcome’. Instead, he replied back, voice slightly mumbled as he was so close to falling asleep. 

“Good night, Stanley Pines. Sweet dreams.” 

Fiddleford lies awake for a bit longer after that, listening as Stan’s breathing deepens, indicating that he’s asleep. His hold on Fiddleford doesn’t slack, and Fiddleford smiles gently to himself, nestling into Stan’s hold, allowing himself to peacefully drift asleep. 

~*~

The next morning, Fiddleford’s alarm goes off sooner than he wanted, but wasn’t that always the case? The temperature in his bedroom was fairly chilly, but the warmth of the blankets, as well as Stan’s body still holding his, made it all too tempting to stay in bed just a bit longer and stay in the comfort and warmth of the bedroom. However, while this thought was tempting, he knew he had too much to get done. He had done barely anything productive yesterday (not that he would have changed anything about it.

Still, with finals less than a week away, he couldn’t afford to lay around in bed for long, as much as he may want to. He couldn’t skip another class again. Sighing as he resigned himself to face the cold, he carefully wiggled himself out of Stan’s grasp, trying not to wake him up. As he reluctantly crawled out of bed, he heard Stan exhale and froze. Peeking behind him, he noticed that he thankfully hadn’t woken up. 

Sleep brought about a peaceful look to Stan’s face. Overnight, his bruises had changed colour ever so slightly. Instead of looking angry and red as they had the previous day when they had been fresh, they now had a slight tinge of blue and purple to them. In a way, they looked worse, but Fiddleford knew it was all part of healing. Luckily, his cuts were scabbing over nicely and were already looking better. Affectionate, sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he pulled the covers closer to Stan before leaning down and pressing a feather light kiss to Stan’s forehead. 

He pulled out come clothes from his drawers, being careful to shut them silently, he padded his way out of the bedroom to the bathroom to get ready for class. He decided to just leave his PJs in the bathroom for now, stashing them in the cabinet under the sink so he could get them later that night. Once he was done brushing his teeth, he left the bathroom to pack and collect his school supplies from where he had left them at his desk in the living room. 

It wasn’t all too surprising to find Stanford already at his desk, hunched over a textbook. 

“Good mornin’,” Fiddleford greeted him, covering his mouth as he yawned. Ford mumbled a greeting back at him before twisting his torso from his chair to face him. He wore a thoughtful expression and Fiddleford patiently waited, knowing that his roommate was struggling to put his thoughts into words. A lot had happened in the course of a day, and he was sure Ford was struggling to adjust to it. All and all, Fiddleford was actually pretty proud of him. 

“Hey Fiddleford,” Ford finally began after a while, not noticing that he had been patiently waiting for him to speak, “Uh-- I wanted to ask you; what even happened to Stan yesterday?” he asks. Fiddleford was a bit surprised by this question. He supposed though that asking Stan a question like that might be a bit much for Ford too soon. Their relationship was still fragile, even if on the mends. Fiddleford sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. 

“I’m sure ya can guess he got beat up pretty bad,” Fiddleford explains, “The details aren’t mine to share, but I found ‘im like that yesterday morning in an alley when he didn’t show up at our meetin’ place.” Heck, Fiddleford didn’t know many details himself. All Stanley had said on the matter was that people didn’t typically like his line of work. He wasn’t sure if Stanley had told Ford what he had been up to the past four years, and didn’t want to overstep any boundaries by telling Ford what he knew before Stan was ready to tell his brother. 

Ford looked quite troubled by even this small admission, and Fiddleford couldn’t blame him. If someone had told him that they had found one of his brothers like that, he would have been just as upset. One look at the expression on Ford’s face told him that he was deep in thought and Fiddleford sighed sympathetically. He slung his backpack over his shoulder as he approached Ford, resting a hand on his forearm compassionately. 

“I think you oughta ask him about what he’s been doin’ the past four years. He told me some of it, but it’s not for me to tell ya. I think--” he paused, licking his lips thoughtfully, “I think it’d be enlightening for ya.” 

Ford looks up at him and nods. Wanting to change the conversation to one a bit more upbeat before he left Ford to study while he went to class, he decided to mention what he had briefly talked to Stanley about last night. 

“Stan and I got to talkin’ last night, and we’re both wondering what’s goin’ on here.” Fiddleford began. Ford’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, so Fiddleford elaborated, “We’re wonderin’ how long he’s going to stay here, and what I wanted to ask you was what you thought about him stayin’ for a while? We can help him get a job, and he can help us around the apartment; that spaghetti he made last night was pretty good, after all.” 

Ford finally seemed to understand, “Oh, of course,” he says, “I-- I’d like for Stan to stay. Havin’ him here would give us a chance to fix our relationship, and I have four years to make up for.” Fiddleford nearly sagged with relief. He didn’t know how he had expected Ford to react, but he was glad he wasn’t going to have to tell Stan he couldn’t stay long. They could work out some of the finer details later, but this was good for now. 

Behind them, the sound of a door creaking open effectively halts their conversation. Footsteps neared the living room, and Stan soon came into view, hair messy, and mouth wide in a yawn. 

“Just the guy we were talkin’ about!” Fiddleford pipes up cheerfully. Stan cocks an eyebrow at them, still looking only half-awake. 

“Huh? What?” he grumbles. 

“We were just talkin’ about some ideas for you,” Fiddleford says. It’s not completely the truth, but it wasn’t exactly a lie either. Stan still looks confused, however. 

“What’s some of your interests or talents, Stanley? Maybe we can come up with some ideas for a job for ya?” Fiddleford asks. 

Stan merely shrugs, then shakes his head, “Don’t got none.” 

This earns a scoff from Ford. “He was the best boxer in all of Glass Shard Beach. He was always winning fights.” 

Stan looks skeptical at this, but suddenly Fiddleford recalls a flier he’d seen around campus. “That’s it!” he exclaims, giddy. Both brothers shared the same look of confusion, “There’s a boxing tournament this Friday! They’ve been advertisin’ it all over town, as well as a pretty nice prize for the winner. Maybe we could get ya signed up for that, and get your name out there. If ya win, maybe they’d hire ya to be a boxin’ instructor or something!” 

Ford finally catches on and actually looks enthusiastic as well. Stan isn’t quite so easily convinced. 

“I don’t know…” he says, arms crossing over his chest, “Ya really think that’ll work?” It’s unsaid, but Fiddleford knows what he’s thinking; it’s too good to be true. Fiddleford waves him off with a hand. From the corner of his eye, he can see Ford nodding his thoughts. 

“Of course it will! We can stop by the gym later on and sign ya up. Ya should be healed up enough by Friday, right?” He asks. 

Stan scoffs, “Of course.” He pauses then rubs his arm uncomfortably as he then pipes up again, “How are we gonna deal with those guys though?” 

Fiddleford merely grins darkly. Ford and Stan look at his face, then exchange a quick glance at each other. “Leave that to me.” 

He glances down at his watch, cursing under his breath. “Shucks, I’m goin’ to be late! I’ll see y’all later!” he waves. Ford abruptly stands up, chair squeaking in protest. 

“I’ll come with you; I have to pick up a book from the library.” He says. He pulls his jacket on over his shoulder and the two of them wave Stan good bye before leaving the apartment. As they leave the building, they walk in silence, but once they’re finally outside, Ford turns to Fiddleford with a knowing expression on his face. 

“You’re building another one of your giant death robots again, huh?” 

Fiddleford merely smirks.

Ford shakes his head at him, but doesn’t object. That’s what he likes about Stanford. He never tries to talk him out of his crazy ideas. 

“So, when are you going to ask my brother out?” He asks, wiping the smirk off of Fiddleford’s face and causing him to sputter, “Oh come on! It’s so obvious you two got a thing for each other that even I noticed. Not to mention he spent the night in your room and came out wearing your clothes.”

He did have a point there. Stanford tended to be oblivious at times, so if he was able to notice, a blind person could. Fiddleford’s cheeks are hot despite the cold winter air. 

“I wasn’t going to make the guy sleep on the couch! Plus, he doesn’t have much clothes of his own. Besides, I can’t ask ‘im out now! So much is goin’ on, what with those guys, then you two makin’ up, and now this boxing tournament? I don’t want to overwhelm him; I’ll wait until things are settled more.” Fiddleford replies. He can’t deny he hadn’t thought about it. He just didn’t want to add another thing to Stan’s already full plate. 

Ford merely hums thoughtfully. 

“What?” Fiddleford asks, sighing dramatically. 

“Nothing.” Ford says innocently, “I just can’t believe my best friend is going to be my brother-in-law.” 

Fiddleford sputters again. His cheeks can’t get any redder at this point, yet Ford has no mercy. 

“Oh no! What if you both want me to be your best man?” Fiddleford finally laughs and shoves Ford playfully. 

“Careful Ford,” Fiddleford warns, still chuckling, “Or I’ll replace your coffee grounds with dirt.” 

Ford gasped in mock horror, and the pair’s chorus of laughter fills the cold winter air.


	11. The Ship in Port

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fiddleford and Stan go to the gym to sign Stan up for the tournament and the trio enjoy a nice family meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I edited the amount of chapters there's going to be in this fic. It's all planned out at this point, but don't be surprised if there's a change as I type the chapters out (up to 15 is written, and so far it's following the mapped out timeline but ya never know).

_You said the ship in port is the safer one_  
_But it’s not the reason it was made_  
_So forgive me if I wander off_  
_And forgive me more if I just stay._

The next day, Fiddleford and Stan walked the few blocks to the gym. Fiddleford had finally mended Stan’s jacket, and just in time seeing as it was snowing yet again. Not to mention that Fiddleford had taken him to the thrift store in town and bought him some clothes to wear while he stayed with them. They both had their hands stuffed in their pockets and collar drawn up to keep out as much of the cold as they could. Since it was mentioned yesterday, Stan had grown steadily more and more excited for the tournament. Boxing was one of the few things he was good at. Sure, he had been good back in high school, but if wandering had done anything good for him, it had helped him to improve his fighting skills. 

Over the past few years, he had found a few underground boxing leagues. The fights weren’t always fair, and Stan had his ass kicked a few times when a fight had been rigged, but there was also plenty of times he had won. Fights usually paid well, and once he became well known in a town, the people had actually seemed to cheer for him. At least until he inevitably had to skip town. 

But there was the chance for a future here. He knew he would eventually overstay his welcome, and losing Ford again, and now losing Fiddleford, would hurt like hell, but it was something that he tried not to think about. At least he had finally explained what had happened to Ford’s project, and it seemed as though Ford actually believed him. Their relationship was still shaky; both twins had grown a lot, different now then they had been when they kids. Stan couldn’t quite joke around with Ford as freely as he once had, too nervous to push too much, but it was still more than he had ever dared to hope for. 

Getting this boxing job would be the dream. He didn’t know how qualified he was to teach it to anyone, but it was worth a shot. He was determined to not be a leech to them. They were already kind enough to buy him clothes, let him stay in their apartment and eat their food. He finally had a place to rest his head at the end of the day, and what was even better, he had someone to share a bed with. 

It was odd though. He and Fiddleford hadn’t done anything beyond an innocent kiss or touch since they had made out on the hill. They slept in the same bed, but nothing else beyond cuddling had happened. He wondered if Fiddleford was disgusted with what he had told him. He couldn’t exact blame him. He had slept with plenty of people, people he knew nothing about. Fiddleford didn’t act any differently around him, and had asserted he didn’t think any differently of him, but there had to be a reason for not trying anything else with him. 

Of course, he could simply have lost interest in him, but this didn’t quite seem right. He still held his hand sometimes, or would press a brief kiss to his lips every now and then. Maybe that was just his way of letting him down easy. 

Stan was disappointed, sure, but he couldn’t really blame him. 

If anything, it made him want to do better. To be better. As long as he was staying with them, he was going to stay away from the bars. He’d dedicate himself to brushing up his boxing skills so he could win the tournament. Now that he had his brother back, he wanted that job more than anything, and he’d do anything to get it. 

“Here we are!” Fiddleford’s cheerful voice cuts through his thoughts. The gym stood before them, and Stan drank in the sight of it. His gym bag, ironically, the same bag his father had thrown at him when he kicked him out, was slung over his shoulder. He had rooted through his car to find his old boxing gloves, tape, and any other gym supplies he might need. Fiddleford led him through the gym to the front desk. 

“How do I sign up for the boxing tournament?” Stan asks, holding up the flier Fiddleford had brought home yesterday from his classes. The desk worker looked up from a magazine with a deadfaced expression. Moving robotically, they pulled up a clipboard that already had names listed. 

“Do you have a membership?” 

Stan’s eyes darted to Fiddlefords, then back to the desk worker, “Uh-- no.” 

“Sign here; I’ll get the forms.” they said, voice monotone. As the desk worker ducked down, rooting through the desk, Stan signed his name, his actual name for once. He pushed the clipboard away from him as the desk worker straightened up and put a couple of papers in front of him to fill out. Stan took one of the pens from a cup on the desk and quickly filled them out, knowing how the drill went, having done this many times in the past. 

Once he finally signed the last paper, he returned the pen to the cup and pushed the papers back to the desk worker, who took it without fanfare. Fiddleford handled the rest of the financial bit, much to Stan’s discomfort. He made a note to pay him back once he won the tournament (he wasn’t going to allow himself to think about the possibility that he wouldn’t win). 

“Alright. First rounds are Friday. Doors open at 3, first match at 4.” the desk worker reports. Stan and Fiddleford both nod, mentally making note of the information. 

They turn away from the desk, facing each other instead. 

“Heh, I guess this is it, huh?” Stan says a bit nervously. He rubs the back of his neck with a hand awkwardly. Fiddleford just grins at him, and Stan thinks that if he could be confident in him, Stan could be as well. 

“You’re goin’ to do fine,” Fiddleford replies, “Come on, I want to see some of these moves I’ve heard so much about.” 

Stan couldn’t help but grin, eager to show off a bit in front of Fiddleford. They made their way through the gym until they found where several punching bags were set up around a ropped off ring, the one that Stan figured the fights would take place in. 

Stan set his bag down by the punching bag and fished out his gloves. He takes a moment to properly wrap his hands before shoving his hands into his gloves and tightening the laces. Fiddleford was just a few feet away, patiently waiting. Stan flashed him a grin as he straightened up. 

Rolling his shoulders back, he approached the bag, dropping into a familiar boxing stance; feet spaced apart and fist held close. He threw a few basic punches just to get back into the swing of things. It’d been a few months since he had boxed, but it didn’t take him long to get himself in the right frame of mind. 

The sounds of the gym faded away as Stan focused on the bag, throwing jabs, swings and hooks intermittently, turning and dodging as the bag began to swing from the momentum of his punches. Boxing was like a dance, a dance with punching. He moved naturally, his footwork fluid as he worked around the bag. Sweat was starting to dot his brow. He was going hard at the bag now. This was what he had always loved about boxing. All of his frustrations, all of the troubles that weighed him down could be taken out on the bag.

The best part of it all was that he could punch all his frustrations away and it was all legal. 

He spends the next few minutes like this until finally, he grabs a hold of the bag as it swings back towards him, and straightens back up. Panting, he wipes his brow with his glove. It’s like a switch was flipped, and he can suddenly hear the sounds of the gym again. He turns to face where Fiddleford is watching him. 

Fiddleford is watching him with a bright red face, mouth slightly agape and trained on him, watching Stan’s arms as he works his gloves off. 

“Whatdya think?” Stan asked, unsure what to make of Fiddleford’s face. His eyes finally breaks away from his arms and looks at his face. 

“Wow,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “Stanford wasn’t kiddin’ when he said you were good.” 

Now it’s Stan’s turn to blush. “Heh, thanks nerd.” he teases. He bends to stuff the gloves in his bag and begins unwinding the tape from his hands. “Maybe I could show ya a few moves sometime.” 

Fiddleford laughs a bit awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck, “I dunno,” he replies, “I don’t think I’d be too good at it. Ma always did say I was a beanpole.” 

Beanpole, huh? Stan barks out a laugh, unable to unsee the similarity. “So?” he said, balling up the tape he finally pulled from one of his hands, getting to work at the other, “It’s just punchin’. Ya don’t need to be a bodybuilder or somethin’ to do it.” 

Fiddleford hesitated before slowly smiling. “Alright. I think I’d like that.” Stan grins. 

“Sounds like a date.” Stan replies. The corners of Fiddleford’s lips tilted in a smile. Stan zipped up his bag and slung it back over his shoulder. “Ready to head out?” 

Fiddleford nods and they begin to make their way back to the apartment. 

“You go ahead back a while; I gotta make a phone call.” Fiddleford said, turning towards Stan once they reach the door. Stan mock salutes, and Fiddleford waits until he’s inside the building before he turns around and walks his way back towards the phone booth. 

Stan’s car is still parked by the phone booth in it’s usual spot, and Fiddleford recalls when he had first met him a little over a week ago. Not for the first time, he was amazed by how quickly his life could change. 

Letting himself into the booth, he closed the door behind him and inserted a few coins. He dialed his home number and listened as the phone dial tone sounded until he heard the ever familiar phrase. 

“Hello, McGucket Residence.” his Ma chimed. In the background, he could distantly hear two of his siblings laughing, drawing a smile from Fiddleford. 

“Hey Ma.” 

“Fiddleford!” his Ma exclaimed. Fiddleford was already prepared and had pulled the receiver away from his ear, fully expecting his mother to yell his name. “How are ya, baby? You eatin’ well?” 

Fiddleford affectionately shook his head, even though he knew his Ma couldn’t see the gesture. “Yes, Ma.” he pauses, then adds, “Actually, long story short, I ran into Ford’s twin brother and he’s been livin’ in the apartment with us for a few days now, and he’s been doin’ all the cookin’ for us.” 

“Ford’s twin brother?” his ma asked, “I didn’t know he had a twin.” 

Fiddleford laughs a bit awkwardly, “About that,” he says, “I didn’t either. That’s a bit of a long story. They had a bit of an argument a few years back that turned into a big misunderstandin’. Their Pa kicked Stan out of the house when he was a teen, and they hadn’t seen each other since, until I befriended Stan after our last phone call.” 

“Oh my!” his mother gasped, and Fiddleford could practically see the hand covering her mouth. “What a tragic story! What kind of parent kicks their own baby out of the house!” 

Fiddleford had been wondering that himself. While he knew he could never stand by and watch one of his own siblings get kicked out, no matter if they were arguing or not, he could at least understand Ford’s point of view. Not to mention Ford was trying to make amends with his brother now. The same couldn’t be said for their father, and Fiddleford had wondered plenty of times over the last few days what kind of man their father was if he could kick his teenage son out of the house without a second though. 

“I don’t know, Ma. Been wonderin’ that myself, lately.” Fiddleford sighs sadly. 

“It’s a shame everyone don’t have a good family.” His Ma said, and Fiddleford smiled at her tone. She hadn’t even met Stan and had only met Ford on a handful of occasions. She just cared so deeply for others. “Hey, I know! Why don’t you invite Ford’s brother to come down to spend Christmas with us!” 

Fiddleford laughed, “That’s actually what I wanted to call ya about. I may have also told Stan about your cookin’ when we first met.” 

His Ma laughed warmly, “I’ll make sure to make an extra pie if he comes. Just let me know, ok? We’d love to have ‘em both here.” 

“Of course. I’ll ask ‘im.” 

“You do that, honey.” In the background, Fiddleford could hear the sounds of one of his siblings starting to cry loudly, “Looks like I’m needed. I gotta go, sweetie, but let me know if he can come. You take care of yourself, ok sweetie?” 

“Ok, Ma. You take care too. Say hi to everyone for me.” Fiddleford replied. 

“Will do, honey. Talk to ya soon!” 

Fiddleford said his goodbyes and hung up the phone. He exited the phone booth, cast one more look at Stan’s car. It was a particularly cold night out. The snow was still drifting down from the sky, and Fiddleford knew that if Stan wasn’t in the apartment, he’d probably be curled up in his car shivering. It saddened him to think about all the times he was lying in his comfortable, warm bed while Stan was only a short distance away, shivering in his car. 

Shivering from the cold, Fiddleford hurried back into the apartment. Stan was already at work with dinner, and Ford practically chained to his desk as usual. Stan turned to face him as he closed the door behind him. 

“Hey.” he said, grinning.

Fiddleford shrugged his jacket off and hung it on the coat hanger, “Hi Stanley.” 

He walked over to Stan, rolling back his sleeves. “Whatcha makin’?” he asked, peeking over Stan’s shoulder. 

“It’s Taco Tuesday.” Stan grins, glancing over his shoulder at Fiddleford. 

“We have Taco Tuesday now?” Fiddleford laughs. 

“Yes, Stan made quite the dramatic announcement when he came back.” Ford chimes in from the other side of the room. 

“Can’t say I’m complainin’ about that. How can I help?” Fiddleford chuckles. 

Soon enough, Stan put him to work and they were working shoulder to shoulder. 

“I was just on the phone with my Ma.” Fiddleford states. 

Stan hums, “Yeah? She excited to hear from ya?” 

“Always is.” Fiddleford laughs, “Always asks me if I’m eatin’, so I was tellin’ her about your cookin’.” 

He glanced at Stan from the corner of his eyes, noting how he smiled ever so slightly to hear that Fiddleford had told his Ma about him. 

“Ford is comin’ home with me for Christmas, and we wanted me to extend an invitation to you as well. I know you’re not Christian, but Ma promised to make another apple pie if you come.” 

Stan seems to stiffen, and Fiddleford hadn’t really considered that Stan would say no. He supposed he should have; Stan hadn’t been part of a family for four years. It might be a lot for him to adjust to. Not to mention Fiddleford’s family was quite large and rowdy, though luckily Stan didn’t know that. 

“I don’t know…” Stan replies uncertainty. Fiddleford looks towards him and sees the nervous, insecure look on his face. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Ford had also turned around in his desk and was watching Stan, though he couldn’t make out what the look was from where he was turned. 

“Aw, come on, Stanley.” Fiddleford said, grinning as he playfully bumped his shoulders into Stan’s. “It’ll be fun! ‘Sides, you’ll have more fun there than you will by yourself here. I can finally show you my favourite spot I was tellin’ ya about.” 

This seemed to tempt Stan, but there was still a doubtful look in his eyes. “I dunno… I don’t wanna intrude.” 

“You aren’t intruding. I’m pretty sure you’ll actually break my Ma’s heart if you don’t come with us.” Fiddleford teases. 

“Come on, Stan,” Ford finally pipes up, to Fiddleford’s joy and Stan’s surprise, “We can finally experience a real Christmas celebration. Remember how our classmates always were talking about it when we were growing up and we were always confused.” 

Stan laughs, “You just want to see an actual tree in someone’s house.” Fiddleford cocks an eyebrow at his roommate, who looks somewhat flustered.

“That’s besides the point! Aren’t you just a little bit curious to see what everyone had been so excited about growing up?” Ford retorts. 

Stan shrugs, “I guess a little.” 

“Then it’s settled. Come with us.” Ford’s eyes softens ever so slightly, but Fiddleford could see that Ford understood why his brother had been hesitating. Now that Stan knew it was ok with Ford if he came, he slowly nodded. 

“Yeah...ok!” he says, “‘Sides, I just want to see this farm you’ve been tellin’ me about, Fidds.”

Fiddleford grins, giddy to have a chance to show his two friends around the place he grew up. He doubted either of them had ever been around a farm, or seen farm animals up close. Hell, maybe he could even get them on a horse. That was assuming he could pry them away from his family. He could already tell his Ma was going to fawn over them (especially Stan now that she knew he hadn’t really had a family for a while), and God knows what his siblings would want to do. 

“I’ll give ya a personal tour, promise.” Fiddleford laughs

“Good, ‘cause I’m holdin’ ya to it.” Stan snorts. 

They finished making the tacos and set out all the rest of the ingredients. With some convincing, Stan convinced Ford to get up from his work to eat with them and the three of them sat down at the dinner to enjoy a meal. Fiddleford quietly sat back in his chair, watching as the two brothers playfully bickered back and forth. Stan pointed out some cheese that had dripped down to Ford’s shirt. When Ford looked down, Stan booped Ford’s nose and burst into loud laughter. Ford looked momentarily like a startled owl. Subtly, he wiped some cheese on his finger. 

“Funny, Stanley. You have something on your shirt too.” Ford replied. 

“Yeah, yeah, nice try Sixer, but I ain’t fallin’ for that.” Stan laughed. 

“You’re right. It’s not on your shirt; it’s on your face!” Ford exclaims as he lunges forward, smearing the cheese across Stan’s cheek. Stan yelps, dropping his taco to his plate as he wipes at the cheese on his face, only succeeding in smearing the cheese on him more. Ford was laughing now, and Fiddleford can’t help and join along. 

He was glad to see both of the brothers getting along so well. He knew Ford would benefit from having some family around, not to mention having someone who could succeed in getting him to eat and go to bed at a half-decent time. 

Fiddleford probably didn’t know half of what Stan was feeling. To have a home, to have a bed to sleep in, to have his brother back, to have a friend; it was all something he hadn’t had in over four years. For the first time in all that time, he had people that would have his back. Fiddleford couldn’t believe his life had changed so much in the past week, and he found that he wanted this change to stick around. 

Watching the two brothers laugh together was a sight he didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of.


	12. Echos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan competes in his first fight of the boxing tournament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Lil disclaimer, I know very little about boxing. I also took some creative liberties, so sorry if there’s any mistakes in this chapter. Reading blogs, watching videos and interviewing my dad only does so much to help, so please keep that in mind as you read this chapter.

_And I am always reminded of lies_  
_That we told but never meant_  
_And at night I could still hear your grin_  
_Like an echo sounding from my sins_

The rest of the week flew by and before Stan realized it, it was the Friday of the first fight. Since Fiddleford had gotten him a gym membership, he spent a lot of his time while Ford and Fiddleford was in class in the gym. It was odd. Now that he wasn’t on the move, he didn’t know what to do with himself. So he spent his days working the bag or lifting weights. He hadn’t gone to the gym since high school when he was in the schools boxing team and it felt nice to get a chance to work his muscles again. 

The past few years hadn’t exactly been kind to his body. He had always been a bit chubbier than Ford, but after he had been kicked out and all he could afford to eat was junk food, he gained even more weight. He hadn’t been working out for even a week yet, but he already felt like it was helping. His arms felt firmer and he didn’t get winded as quickly as he used to. 

He’d even managed to make a few acquaintances who were regulars at the gym already. A few of them were people who had also signed up for the boxing tournament, and while they might have been able to lift more weights than him, he had watched them box and he wasn’t impressed. 

He might be a fool to be hopeful but he was confident that he’d win. Life on the road had taught him that hope was dangerous; it only led to disappointment and hurt, but boxing was one of the few things he was good at, really good at. Ford might have been the smart twin, but Stan could always rely on punching to get himself out of a pickle. 

He’d been surprised when both Ford and Fiddleford announced the day before that they were coming to see the fight. Finals was the upcoming week, so he hadn’t even thought to invite them. He just thought it was safe to assume they’d both be too busy studying to go. 

They were packing up to leave for the gym. Ford had a notebook tucked under his arm to read (strictly for when Stan wasn’t boxing, he made sure to emphasize that) and Fiddleford was already slipping his arms through the sleeves of his winter coat.

Fiddleford had been a source of confusion for him as of late. Since they had agreed to let Stan stay with them, Stan had slept in Fiddleford’s bed every night, snuggly cuddled against the smaller man. Every morning, Fiddleford would kiss Stan’s head when he thought he was sleeping before leaving for class, only furthering to complicate the swirling thoughts in Stan’s head. Fiddleford was growing more and more openly affectionate with him, but he was learning more and more that Fiddleford was just an affectionate guy. 

Yet he hadn’t seen him be affectionate with anyone else in the same ways he was affectionate with him. If it hadn’t been for that kiss on the hill a week ago, he would have thought Fiddleford liked him for sure, but considering they haven’t even kissed each other beyond a kiss on the forehead or cheek since make him doubt it. 

“Eyes on the fight, Pines! No distractions in the ring!” he could practically hear his high school coach yelling in his ears. 

Stan zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulders. He saw Ford’s eyes drop to the bag around his shoulders, and saw a sadness dim his eyes, probably recognizing it as the bag that Pa had thrown at him when he was kicked out. Distantly, he wondered what Pa would think if he knew he was living with Ford. It would probably reaffirm everything he thought about him; that all he could do was lie, cheat, and ride his brothers coattails. 

Goddammit, there he goes again. He couldn’t afford to be trailing down the path to self pity now. He had a fight to win. 

“Ya ready to go, Stan?” Fiddleford asked. Stan grins at him.

“Hell yeah!”

The trio left the warmth of the apartment building and trekked through the snow to the gym. The gym was busier than normal, and after telling a desk worker that he was there for the tournament, he was ushered back, waving for Ford and Fiddleford to follow him. 

There were quite a few people in boxing shorts hopping around on the balls of their toes, their coach pumping them up with a pep talk before the fight. Stan was suddenly acutely aware that he had no coach, but then realized he had something better. He had the Fords (a nickname he had dubbed them with the previous day and was quite proud of.)

He picked out an empty spot and set his bag on the ground, quickly shedding his coat and stuffing it into the bag. He also removed his shirt and stuffed that in along with his coat. To his right, he heard a sharp inhale from Ford and mentally cursed. 

Shit, he had forgotten. While his bruises were mostly faded by now, his torso and arms were littered with old scars. Cigarette burns, cuts, stab wounds, even a spot where he had been barely nicked by a bullet back when he was fleeing some guys he owed money to. He had forgotten that he hadn’t explained any of them to Ford and that he would see them tonight. He glanced at his twin, noticing the horrified expression on his face as his eyes drank in the sight of all of the scars. At his sides, six fingers were balled into a fist so tight that his knuckles were white. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but as Fiddleford rested a hand over his arm, he shut his mouth again. 

Stan wasn’t even going to look at Fiddleford. He could just imagine the heartbroken expression on his face, the same one he had given him when Stan had initially told him about his past. He knew if he saw that expression again that he’d lose all reserve for this fight. 

Instead, he focused himself on retrieving the tape and gloves from his bag and setting to work on wrapping his hands for the match. 

“Gee, I hadn’t thought this many people in this small town would be into boxing.” Fiddleford commented, trying to break the awkward mood that hung in the air. Stan was thankful for it, not even realizing that he was holding his breath until it came rushing out of him. 

“Heh, yeah I’m surprised too. I’ve seen some of these guys boxing in the gym though.” He leaned closer to them, covering one side of his mouth with a hand, whispering as best as his gruff voice could manage, “They’re not that great.” 

The Fords snickered at him affectionately. As Stan finished up wrapping his hands, Fiddleford nudged Ford, “We oughta go get our seats a while. I’m not sure if we’re technically allowed to be back here; I don’t see anyone else here.” 

Ford’s eyes flickered around the room, mumbling an “oh” as he also noticed there was only fighters in the back room. “Yes, that sounds like a good idea. I want to get good seats anyway.” 

“Make sure ya don’t get too close; you don’t want to end up in the ‘splash zone’.” Stan teased. Ford shook his head affectionately. He clamped a hand down on Stan’s shoulders. Stan’s heart fluttered in his chest at the familiar gesture. It had been far too long since they had shared such familiar gestures with each other. Little by little, their relationship was going back to the way it had been and Stan couldn’t be happier. 

“Knock ‘em dead, knucklehead,” Ford said, smiling confidently at his twin. Stan merely nodded back, hard determination in his eyes. 

Their gazes lingered for a few moments longer before Ford gave his shoulder one last squeeze and stepped back. Fiddleford easily slipped into his place, wide grin on his face. 

“Knock ‘em dead, Stan. Well-- not literally. That’s against the rules, but ya know what I mean.” Fiddleford laughed. 

Stan playfully punched Fiddleford’s shoulder, “You got it, Fidds.” 

The Fords waved bye one last time before retreating to where a ring was set up. 

With impeccable timing, the referee stepped into the room and called all the boxers together. Stan knew the drill by now; he’d heard the same speal over and over again back in high school. It was worded a bit differently each time, but the message was still the same; a listing of the rules (which Stan knew by heart) and a reminder to emphasize for boxers to remember to protect themselves at all times and break when told to break. 

Once the meeting was concluded, the boxers broke off to resume what they had been doing. 

Now alone, Stan had the time to properly get himself into the right frame of mind for the fight. Locating a few punching bags set up around the room, Stan found an open bag. Hopping back and forth on the balls of his feet, working up a sweat. He drew his fists close to his chest, shadow boxing to work his muscles. Once he was good and warmed up, he threw some punches at the bag. He started off slow at first, but worked his way up until the bag was swinging and he was swiftly maneuvering himself around the bag, ducking and dodging the bag. 

Not wanting to tire himself out before his match, he threw one last punch and stepped away from the bag. Luckily, he only had two more matches to wait until he was up, so he might as well watch them. Standing by the doorway that separated the back area from where the ring was set up, he peered through the small gathering of people to watch the two fighters in the ring. Yeesh, it was almost pathetic. 

He hadn’t entered a legitimate boxing competition since he was in high school. Everything since then had been underground boxing leagues or matches at a bar. Most of the guys who participated were like him; they needed some sort of cash, and weren’t exactly new to fighting. Circumstances had forced them to become good fighters. These guys were mediocre at best; probably just guys who enjoyed pumping iron at the gym and saw the posters. They looked the part, brand new gloves and rippling muscles and excellent form. But looking the part, and actually knowing the strategies was a whole other thing. 

Stan turned around, not interested in watching the fight anymore. It was almost sad how easy this fight was going to be. He had almost half hoped for some excitement, but then again, he was relieved. His life was plenty exciting right now, and he really needed this competition to go well for him. 

The crowd behind him cheered as the fight came to an end. A new pair of fighters strode to the stage, puffing their greased up chests to look bigger. Stan cast a glance at them, and with a roll of his eyes, deemed that they weren’t worth watching. 

Knowing he would be up after them, he shifted on his feet, standing on the balls of his feet. He rolled his neck and shook out his shoulders. His thoughts narrowed until all he could think about was the fight. The rounds flew by, not garnering much attention from Stan. His attention wasn’t broken until the crowd cheered again. The two boxers left and stage and Stan strode to the ring. 

“Next in the ring, we have Stanley Pines and David Griffith.” The announcer called loudly. Shaking out his hands, Stan went to his corner, hopping on the tips of his feet. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Fiddleford and Ford watching him in anticipation. The corners of his lips tugged upwards, but that was all he’d allow himself to acknowledge them right now. He stared intently as his opponent took the opposite corner. The guy was leaner than him, but was slightly taller. 

Something about the look on his face reminded Stan of Filbrick. No doubt, this guy was underestimating him, seeing his gut and long hair and assuming that he wouldn’t be much of a fighter. The guy was obviously a gym rat, but Stan knew that type. They were tight, stiff, and didn’t know how to actually fight. 

He’d prove to him that he made a mistake in underestimating Stanley Pines. 

The referee walked towards the center of the ring. Stan and his opponent followed his lead. 

“We went over the rules in the dressing room, but remember; I want a clean fight. Protect yourself at all times, no hits below the belt, and break when I tell you to break. You may touch gloves.” 

Stan’s eyes barely left his opponents, staring intently back at him. They both reached out, touching gloves before backing up to their corners once more. The referee stepped back closer to the edge of the ring and nodded to the time keeper. 

The bell rang, the fight began.

The crowd began cheering as the two fighters trotted towards the center of the ring, their gloves drawn close to their faces. Stan’s eyes were hard with determination as he met his opponent in the middle. Immediately, the guy threw a hard right punch, which Stan easily dodged. 

Yeesh, just how green was this guy that he couldn’t even wait to come out swinging. They were barely close enough to reach. Stan’s feet moved confidently as he danced around the other man. Taking two quick steps closer, he extended his right glove. His opponent raised his glove, and Stan struck with a quick gab to his now exposed side. 

As expected, a swing was thrown his way, but Stan quickly dodged it. Anger flared in the other man’s eyes, obviously pissed that he couldn’t land a hit against the man who looked like he did nothing but eat junk food and drink beer. 

Their footsteps seemed to sync up as they moved around one another, and Stan could tell his opponent was changing his approach. The man threw a few jabs at Stan, the last of which he was able to block. With his opponents arm extended, Stan swung a fast right hand and grinned as it connected. 

Their dance went on like this. The other guys footwork was good but Stan’s was better. Gliding across the floor, they exchanged a series of jabs and hooks. They’d take a few steps away from each other then quickly advance again, fists swinging. Stan, confident that the match was his, worked the guy. He was constantly searching for new angles to hit his opponent from; a jab to the head here, a punch to his middle there. To his opponents credit, the punches he landed were strong and left Stan feeling winded.

Fists at either side of his head, Stan’s head wove back and forth as he glared at his opponent. Quick punches came for his middle. He lowered his gloves to block, but his opponent swung a fast jab at his face. There wasn’t a lot of power behind the hit, but considering Stan’s nose was still tender from the break earlier that week, it was enough to make his eyes water. 

Stan swung a hard punch at the other but his opponent was already moving away. Mimicking him, Stan backed up a few steps and moved to the side. As they moved towards each other again, the bell rang and the referee’s hands waved. 

Both boxers dropped their gloves and retreated to their corners. The crowd was cheering, and Stan could hear the Ford’s voices amongst them. He glanced their way, shooting a crooked grin their way. He lowered him onto the stool someone had stuck in the corner of the ring and caught his breath. His opponents trainer let himself through the ropes of the ring, stepping in front of him to block Stan’s view. He had no trainer to join him, but as his gaze once again returned to the Ford’s animated faces, he remembered he had no need for one.

The minute break passed quickly and soon enough, the trainer was ducking back under the ropes. Rolling his shoulders again, Stan got to his feet. His eyes met his opponent as he did the same. 

The crowds cheering picked up as the referee’s hand waved, signaling the start of the fight. Leaning his upper half forwards and drawing his gloves up again, Stan and his opponent shuffled towards each other. Moving in and out of each other, they threw more punches than the previous round. Their intricate dance from the previous round was instead replaced by more rapid feet movement, and even more rapid punches. Stan landed several good punches at his opponent, but was quickly forced back as the other retaliated with some powerful punches of his own. 

One in particular connected with his face. Retreating quickly, his opponent advanced, too confident as he threw more punches which barely reached Stan. Noticing this, he backed up, allowing Stan to step forward, throwing several hooks. Hearing a grunt as his left hook hit its mark brought a determined smirk to Stan’s lips. His head wove as he blocked several more punches from the other man. 

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Stan forced his opponent back towards the ropes as he leveled punch after punch. The blood was pounding in his ears so loud, and his limbs were practically tingling with the amount of adrenaline coursing through him. He barely felt the next punch, but rather, he could hear the crowd gasp. 

Taking advantage of his opponent being too proud of his work, Stan advanced again, landing hit after hit as he exploded towards his opponent. The dull sound of glove connecting with skin was the only thing Stan was aware of. The crowd was cheering loudly now, but their clamors barely registered to Stan as he kept dodging and forcing his opponent back. 

When the boxers finally separated, Stan was definitely feeling winded now. His opponent took advantage of that, seemingly targeting his middle. Each punch was a shock to his diaphragm, causing him to sharply inhale. 

His opponent didn’t seem to slow as he advanced again, and Stan was determined to show that two could play at that game. He ducked and guarded against the punches thrown his way, waiting for an opening to swing hard punches at his opponent. Neither were willing to back down as they pushed each other, moving quicker, throwing harder, not giving the other time to catch their breath. 

Just moments shy of the referee calling the fight, Stan swung his fists, landing a powerful left hook on the side of his opponents face. Hearing the bell that followed, both boxers again retreated to their corner. The stools were put back out and Stan heavily sank into it once again. 

His gaze quickly found Fiddleford and Ford in the crowd again. He could tell that Fiddleford was a little nervous following the last round. He hadn’t outright said it, but Stan suspected this was the first boxing match he had ever seen, so he could understand how the intensity of the second match could fray his nerves. 

Ford, however, appeared invigorated by the fight. He was cheering loudly, his usual owl-like appearance replaced by an exultant expression. It was endearing, and Stan couldn’t help but smile. It’d been four years since he’d had anyone to cheer him on, and here he was, suddenly finding himself with not one person, but two! 

The minute was up, and letting out a final, heavy breath, Stan got to his feet, steeling himself for one more round. The chairs were pulled from the ring, and the air seemed to hang as the boxer's waited for the bell to ring once again. 

Once the bell sounded, they exploded at each other. After a few experimental ducks, the fists started flying. The foot work was faster, more calculated as the opponents wove around each other, ducking and swinging at each other in rapid succession. 

Stan’s lips curled into a smirk as he swung at his opponent, ducking and occasionally blocking to avoid punches. They were barely letting each other up, and Stan wasn’t about to give in. His feet darted quickly around his opponent, landing punch after punch. 

This round felt much faster than all the others. It was hard to keep track of how long they were at it when the blood was roaring in his ears, drowning out any other sound. His heart was hammering loudly against his rib cage, but the thrill of the fight was strong enough to keep Stan going. 

Near the end of the round, his opponent landed a particularly strong punch on his face. Stan’s face turned to the side, blood already dripping from his nose. He didn’t waste any time to recover. His opponent had paused to admire his hit, and Stan took advantage of the distraction. His arms flew as he wailed on his opponent, who barely even had enough time to weave his head to avoid Stan’s fists. Stepping closer, he pushed the other back until he was nearly against the ropes. Now cornered, he tried to land a few weak punches at Stan, but he barely felt them. 

The bell sounded again and Stan immediately halted. Blood was freely dripping down his face as he straightened up. The crowd was going wild at Stan’s last minute show. His chest heaved for breath, and his body ached, but a wide grin spread across Stan’s face nonetheless. There was an entire crowd cheering for him, but Stan only had eyes for two people. 

He quickly found them in the crowd. Fiddleford and Ford had both stood from their seats and were loudly whooping and yelling for him, their eyes alight with excitement. Stan extended his gloved fist towards them and if it were possible to grin wider, he would have. 

They remained towards the center of the ring as the judges counted up the points for the rounds. Once completed, they conferred with the referee who then joined the two boxers in the center of the ring. He took a hold of both boxers gloves. 

“And the winner, by the unanimous voting of three judges,” The announcer called loudly. He paused for dramatic effect, “Stanley Pines!” 

The referee raised Stan’s glove in the air as the crowd cheered. Stan raised his other fist as he turned towards his brother and friend, grinning at them. From the corner of his eyes, he saw his opponent clapping as he stared at the ground. As the cheers died down, Stan offered a gloved hand to David. 

“Good fight,” Stan said. The other man didn’t look pleased to have been beaten by Stan, but knew he had to be at least polite in front of all the spectators. They touched gloves. 

“You too.” 

At this, they parted ways. 

As Stan ducked under the ropes, he saw Fiddleford and Ford rushing over to meet him. 

“Stanley, that was amazin’!” Fiddleford cheered excitedly, his eyes alight with pride and excitement. The bright red flush on his face did not go unnoticed by Stan. 

“Yeah, you did great, Stan! You really had that guy!” Ford added, looking equally as excited. 

“Heh, thanks guys.” Stan replied sheepishly, spitting his mouth piece into his gloved hands and pocketing it. 

“He really did a number on your nose, though” Fiddleford observes, stepping closer to get a better look at Stan’s nose, “He didn’t break it again, did he?” 

Stan shook his head, “Nah, it doesn’t feel broken.” It did hurt like hell though. Fiddleford only seemed slightly happy by this answer, his eyes not leaving the steady stream of blood still dripping from Stan’s nose. 

“At any rate, let’s get you cleaned up.” Ford replied. 

Stan wasn’t going to object to that. The trio retreated to the back once more. As Ford helped to untie the strings to his gloves, Fiddleford retrieved some towels from the bathroom. As the towel pinched the bridge of his nose, Stan hissed. Fiddleford’s eyes were soft as he apologized. The pressure on his nose remained, encouraging clots to form to stop the bleeding. 

In the meantime, Ford had untied the laces and removed Stan’s gloves. He made quick work of removing the tape from around Stan’s hand. Once he was done, Fiddleford insisted that he take Stan to the sink to finish washing off the blood that was quickly drying to Stan’s face. 

Once in the bathroom, Fiddleford tentatively removed the pressure from Stan’s nose, looking pleased to note that the bleeding had stopped. He ran a fresh towel under the water from the sink and tentatively dabbed at the blood on Stan’s jaw. 

“How is it that you’re always the one who keeps gettin’ stuck cleanin’ me up?” Stan teased him, patiently letting Fiddleford fuss about his face. 

Fiddleford’s gaze briefly flickered to Stan’s eyes before darting back down to his work, “I ain’t stuck doin’ anythin’,” he points out stubbornly, “That’s what friends are for. I’d reckon you’d do the same for me.” 

Stan chuckled. “Sure I would,” he replied, “But not until I’ve had a ‘word’ with whoever messed with ya. I’ll make sure they look worse than you.” 

“Careful, Stan,” Ford says as he enters the bathroom, Stan’s boxing bag hanging from his shoulder, “You don’t ‘have a word’ with people like that. I don’t want to have to be bailing you out of jail.”

Stan scoffs, “Please,” he waves a hand nonchalantly, “I’m plenty good at talkin’. Don’t ya remember all those times I convinced Ma and Pa not to ground us?” 

Ford smiled fondly, “Fair enough. But as far as I can recall, you never just ‘had a word’ with any of the bullies that used to pick on me.” 

“Eh, don’t worry about it, Poindexter. That’s where it helps to be able to talk my way out of things. Even if I do get in trouble with the cops, I’ll just come up with an excuse.” 

Fiddleford’s hand moved away from Stan’s nose, eyes squinting from behind his thick glasses. After a moment of scrutiny, he deemed Stan’s face officially clean enough. 

“Yeah, well, luckily I don’t think you’ll have to be worryin’ about none of that.” Fiddleford said, tossing the bloody towels into the trash, “It’s not like anyone would be wantin’ to wallop me.” 

Stan snorted, “Ya got a point there. Your southern charm is too… charmin’.” Moving to his brother, he took his bag from him. He paused a moment to pull his shirt and jacket from the bag, as well as stuff his mouth piece back into its case. He set the bag on the floor. 

“Let’s get you two nerds home,” Stan replied, shrugging the coat over his shoulders.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he quickly wrapped his arm around Fiddleford and Ford’s shoulder, grinning at the two of them. He steered them out of the dressing room. There were still fights going on, and the crowd could be heard, cheering for whoever was in the ring now. 

Stan was rather shocked to find that some people recognized him as they left the building. A few people shouted congratulations on his match; it seemed as though the end of the third round had cemented Stan as a promising opponent for later rounds, as well as a fan favorite. 

That was certainly a first. Stan almost didn’t know how to handle it. He shouted a ‘thank you’ back to them and flashed a grin, but internally he was floundering. 

He wasn’t used to so much positive attention. Sure, he hadn’t made any friendships with his opponent, but the crowd seemed to like him. Not to mention, he had Ford and Fiddleford by his side, cheering him on. Even back in high school he hadn’t had as much. He’d had Ford for support and that had been more than enough. Occasionally, his father would come watch his matches, staring with his arms crossed over his chest and a stoic expression on his face. 

Stan wondered what Filbrick would think of him now. 

He wondered if it was bad that he didn’t really care. 

The cold air was sharp as they left the gym and Stan released his hold from Ford and Fiddleford in favor of stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. Their footsteps quickened, hurrying to get back to their warm apartment.


	13. Small Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan gives Fiddleford some (totally heterosexual) boxing tips, the Ford's watch Stan's second boxing match of the tournament, and Stan's past starts to catch up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's the seventh anniversary of the first episode being aired, as well as Stan and Ford's ?? birthday! If any of y'all are interested, I made a collage of some of the cosplays and art I've made for this show over the past five years on my instagram @/cryptidcosplays. Additionally, I've added another chapter to this fic since one of the last chapters would have been monstrously long if I didn't. I've got about 2-3 more to write and then this fic is finished (apart from actually posting them). I have some ideas for a sequel, so if you'd be interested in that, let me know. Happy reading!

_If you need come build your home in me_  
_And you know I won't complain_  
_And I can't fix what was done to you_  
_But I'll shield you from the rain_

The following day finds Stan and Fiddleford at the gym once again. Surprisingly, he didn’t need to do much to convince Fiddleford to come with him. Stan was planning on working the bag for a bit and figured it would be a perfect time to give Fiddleford some tips on the subject. Fiddleford seemed eager enough considering he could finally take a study break and Stan suspected he liked getting to watch Stan box.

As they made their way through the gym to where the bags were set up, several people called a greeting to Stan.

“Good fight, Pines!”

“Ya don’t look like much, but ya sure can pack a punch!”

“I’ll be bettin’ on ya come Monday!”

Stan didn’t know what to make of his newfound popularity. He couldn’t recall a point he had ever been liked or remotely popular. Sure, when he would box people would sometimes cheer for him, but after the fight, he was quickly forgotten about. He was just another nameless, faceless boxer to entertain the moment. Here though, they actually remembered his name.

Stan couldn’t help but grin, finding himself standing a bit straighter. He called back some ‘thank you’s and continued leading Fiddleford to the bags.

“Wow, that’s really somethin’!” Fiddleford exclaims, “They must have really been impressed by your fight!”

Stan blushed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Heh, I guess so.”

Slinging the gym bag off his shoulders, it hit the ground with a muffled thud. Stan crouched down on a knee, rooting through the bag until he found the hand tape and boxing gloves.

“Sorry, the gloves might be a bit big on you, but it’ll do for today.” Stan said as he straightens up.

“I don’t mind none.” Fiddleford chuckled. His cheeks flushed as Stan takes one of Fiddleford’s hands in his.

“We’re gonna wrap your hands first. If ya decide you want to box more, we can take more time to properly show ya how to do it, but for now I don’t want to bore ya.” Stan said as he began wrapping Fiddleford’s hands with an ease that let on just how often he must have wrapped his own hands in the past. “For now, we’re just wrapping them ‘cause they pad your knuckles, as well as lessen the chance of a sprained wrist.”

Fiddleford nodded silently, too fascinated as he watched Stan skillfully wrap his hands, too distracted by the feeling of Stan’s other hand grasping his.

When Stan finishes with that hand, he picks up Fiddleford’s other hand to resume wrapping. Fiddleford’s eyes briefly looked up to Stan, their eyes meeting for a brief moment before their gazes dropped as a blush tinted their cheeks.

The tension between them these days was getting thicker and thicker. They still shared a bed together, so the cuddles and secret morning kisses were becoming routine. However, they were starting to get braver in each other’s presence. When they were doing dishes together, Stan would often rest a hand over Fiddleford’s hips as he moved around him. Or if Fiddleford studied on the couch as Stan watched TV, Fiddleford would sometimes lean against Stan, or other times, Stan would throw his arm over the back of the couch and pretend not to notice when it would slip lower until he had his arm around Fiddleford’s shoulders.

Still, Fiddleford was reluctant to say anything outright to Stan seeing as he was so focused on the tournament. He knew winning this tournament meant a lot to Stan. He was still so eager to prove he wouldn’t be a burden to him or Ford and Fiddleford didn’t want to do anything that could possibly distract him.

“Alright, you’re all set.” Stan stated with a smile as he finished wrapping Fiddleford’s hands. “Let’s see a fist.”

Fiddleford did so, albeit timidly. Stan nodded to him, stepping closer.

“Not a bad start, Fiddlesticks,” he said. “I don’t know how much experience you have with this, but most people I come across who try to make a fist for the first time stick their thumb inside their fist. You didn’t, so you’ve already got a leg up on them.”

Fiddleford smiled sheepishly at Stan’s praise.

“You’re gonna want to make a tight fist though. Won’t do ya any good to have a loose one. See, like this,” Stan demonstrated making a fist, his knuckles whitening. Fiddleford took a breath and tightened his own fists.

“Just like that! Good!” Stan praises again, “Lastly, you’re going to want to make a straight line from your knuckles to your wrists to your elbow. If you have it bent like that, you’re more likely to break or sprain something when you punch.”

Taking Fiddleford’s fists, he straightened out his wrists until he was satisfied with what he saw.

“Perfect!” Stan grinned. Fiddleford’s cheeks flushed.

“Ok good. Now just do that and you’re good to go. Let’s get those gloves on ya now.” Stan crouched to pick up the gloves and Fiddleford helped to wiggle his hands into the gloves. Stan tied the strings and patted Fiddleford’s hands when he was done.

“Alright, so next, let’s just practice a few punches on the bag. Remember what I told ya about keeping your arms straight and give that bag a good punch.”

Fiddleford glanced from Stan to the bag quickly before finally turning towards the bag. He balled his hands into fists and pulled them close just as he had seen Stan do when he watched him work the bag a few days before.

He took a breath, steeling his rising nerves before throwing a punch at the bag. The bag barely moved and Fiddleford felt his cheeks heating up, this time from shame rather than a blush.

To his credit, Stan didn’t laugh or scoff at him like Fiddleford feared he would.

“That was good. Your form ain’t bad at all.” Stan took a few steps closer, stopping until he stood to the side of Fiddleford and the bag. “Don’t be afraid though; you’re not gonna hurt the bag, and with the gloves and the form you got, you’re not gonna hurt yourself either. Try punching it again, but don’t hold back. Really give it a good wallop.”

Fiddleford took another breath, eyes narrowing. He swung at the bag again, content to see it swung more than the first time.

“Good!” Stan said, a sly smile tugging at his lips, “Hit it again!”

Fiddleford’s lips pressed together into a thin line. He threw another punch, harder than before.

“And again!” Stan egged him on.

With a grunt, Fiddleford hit the bag again, heart starting to hammer in his chest.

“And again!”

Fiddleford let’s out a loud grunt as he throws his weight into the punch. His eyes widened as the bag swung from the force.

“There ya go!” Stan exclaimed, clapping a hand over his back.

“Wow, that was...” Fiddleford trailed off, not sure how to put words into his thoughts. “I see why ya liking boxin’ so much.”

Stan chuckled, “It was the best thing my Pa ever did for me. Maybe the only thing, really.”

Fiddleford tilted his head, “Whadya mean?”

Stan shrugged, “Pa signed Ford and I up for boxing lessons when we were younger. Said it’d toughen us up.” He gave a short laugh, “Stanford didn’t take to it all that well. He failed gym class once, but ya didn’t hear that from me. I’m willing to bet he’s still upset about that.”

Stan laughed again, smiling fondly at the memory, “Me, on the other hand— it was the only thing I was good at. Won a bunch of medals for boxing, impressed a date one time by punching the daylights out of a guy who tried to steal her bag. Even found a few under ground boxing leagues over the last few years and did pretty well in them.”

Fiddleford was silent for a moment as he took it all in. “I can see why you did so well.” He chuckled fondly, “Never was too into boxing before, but you really are somethin’ to watch when you’re in the ring.”

Stan rubbed the back of his neck, eliciting a laugh from Fiddleford. It was almost too easy to fluster him sometimes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan scoffed, “Let’s go a step further, alright? We’re gonna learn a bit about workin’ the bag.”

Fiddleford nodded, face smoothing into a look of determination.

“First, your feet.” Stan shifts to stand with his feet firmly planted square to his shoulders, “Just like this, alright. Your feet should be about even with your shoulders, and bend your knees a bit.”

Fiddleford mimicked him, shuffling his feet until he was a mirror of Stan.

Stan nodded in approval. “Having good footing is the back bone for everything in boxing. It’s where all of your power, control and mobility is gonna come from. We won’t go crazy for today, but keep that stance and crouch down a bit more and pull your fists up closer to you. Shift your balance back and forth on your feet until you have a nice steady moment going and throw some quick punches at the bag. I’ll demonstrate.”

Stan moves with practiced precision as he threw several quick jabs at the bag, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet. After a moment, he still, resting a hand on the bag before letting it fall to his side.

“Give it a shot.”

Fiddleford nodded once, doing as Stan instructed. The movement felt foreign to him. Stan had made it seem so easy before and now Fiddleford wasn’t so sure. Yet Stan still hadn’t laughed at him once and he doubted he was going to start.

Fiddleford shifted his weight on his feet experimentally. It took him a moment to get a good rhythm going before he started throwing some punches at the bag.

It didn’t feel natural and even Fiddleford could tell that he didn’t have it down right. Before Stan could speak up and offer some pointers, Fiddleford paused, adjusting his movements before throwing some experimental jabs.

It felt better that time. Satisfied and feeling rather proud of himself, Fiddleford punched the bag with a bit more confidence. Unable to keep his grin at bay, he halted and grinned to himself.

Stan laughed, and for a moment, Fiddleford feared he was laughing at something Fiddleford did wrong.

“Damn, you’re a natural at this! Ya sure ya didn’t box before?” Stan asked. When Fiddleford looked towards him, he was content to see that he had what looked to be pride in his eyes as he looked at Fiddleford.

Relaxing and allowing himself to laugh with him, Fiddleford shrugged sheepishly.

“I’m sure.” After a moment, he adds, “I did get into some horseplay with my siblin’s growin’ up.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow, “We talkin’ horseplay as in rough housin’ or were their actual horses involved?”

Fiddleford snorts, “No horses involved. This time, anyways.”

Stan just shakes his head at him, an affectionate smile on his lips that warms Fiddleford’s heart to see.

“Still, you’re pretty good, Fiddlesticks. I think that was good for today. I don’t want to overload ya.”

Fiddleford nodded and offers his gloved hands to Stan who promptly starts untying the strings to the gloves and pulling Fiddleford’s hand free.

“Did ya enjoy it though?” He asked, eyes darting to glance at Fiddleford before looking away as he tossed the gloves towards the open bag. He started unwinding the tape, pointedly not looking at Fiddleford.

“‘Course I did!” Fiddleford assured him, “I was a bit nervous at first. I mean, you’re so good at this; I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. But you’re a good teacher. I think you’d really be good at teachin’ boxing, Stan.”

Hearing the sincerity in Fiddleford’s voice, Stan looks up from Fiddleford’s hands.

“You really think so?” His voice is so hopeful that Fiddleford nearly laughs at how Stan could think any differently. If he could just see what Fiddleford saw, he wouldn’t be so insecure about himself.

Fiddleford refrained from laughing though, not wanting Stan to maybe get the wrong idea. “I really do. I can say from experience that you’d be a good coach.”

Stan’s lips hesitantly curls upwards. “Heh, yeah, maybe you’re right. It would be a pretty sweet gig after all.”

Fiddleford agreed with him and they fall into a comfortable silence as Stan finished unwrapping the tape until Fiddleford’s hands were free.

Stan’s touch lingered for a moment, and for a brief moment, Fiddleford wondered if he was going to say something. But the moment passed and Stan let go of Fiddleford’s hands.

“How about we get you a coffee before you head back home?” Stan suggested as he crouched to zip up his gym bag. He slung the strap over his shoulder as he straightened.

Fiddleford nodded, “A coffee sounds good right about now. We may as well get one for Ford while we’re at it. Maybe they’ll have a fresh cinnamon bun for ya as well.”

Stan nodded, smiling to Fiddleford as they left the gym. “Sounds like a date.”

* * *

The rest of the weekend flew by in the blink of an eye. Fiddleford and Ford were busy finishing projects and getting last minute studying done as finals week started that Monday.

Stan tried his best to stay out of their hair either working out in the gym as much as he could, or watching the tv as they studied. He’d cook meals for them, but didn’t bother to insist they eat it at the table together. Rather, he’d call them to make their plates which they’d then take to their desks to eat while going over notes.

Meanwhile, Stan would sit down at the couch and eat his meals in front of the tv.

However, despite finals week having started, Fiddleford and Ford insisted they’d come watch Stan’s fight.

“Listen, you guys really don’t have to come. I get that it’s a busy week for you guys; I’m not expecting you to come.” Stan tried to argue with them.

Fiddleford merely scoffed at him.

“That’s good of you, but we’re coming.” Ford simply insisted as he was packing a few textbooks and a notebook into his bag. “I can still study when you’re not in the ring, so you won’t have to worry about us taking too much time away from studying.”

Fiddleford nodded in agreement, “It’ll be good to get a change of scenery anyways. I’m getting rather tired of always being at the desks anyway.”

Seeing as they already had their minds made up, Stan shrugged and left it at that.

True to his word, after Stan parted with them to go to the changing room, Fiddleford and Ford found some seats (Stan again reminded them not to sit in the ‘splash zone’ as he insisted on called it) and Ford pulled out his textbook and notes and started studying.

Fiddleford also pulled out a notebook to study from, but found that he couldn’t channel out the matches as well as Ford could. Since Stan’s first match, he found that he was growing more and more interested in boxing.

None of them were quite as entertaining as Stan’s fights. He knew it was most likely because he enjoyed watching Stan, someone he knew, fight more so than watching two strangers duke it out in the ring, but he wanted to believe it was because Stan was so good.

He managed to get some studying done, but he was all too aware of whenever the crowds cheers would crescendo. Ford barely seemed to notice. Fiddleford theorized that nothing short of a disaster would break Ford’s attention once he was concentrated.

The crowds cheering grew once again as the current match ended and the two boxers left the ring.

There’s a few minutes pause until Stan and his opponent emerge from the locker room and take the stage. Fiddleford nudged Ford who jolted his head up to look up. Seeing Stan trotting to the stage, he shut his books and slid them under his chair.

“Come on, Stan!” Ford cheered loudly above the noise of the spectators. It seemed Stan had a fair amount of people rooting for him this round.

Despite the various voices cheering his name, Stan only had eyes for him and Ford. He extended a gloved hand towards them with a grin.

“You got this!” Fiddleford exclaimed, pumping his fists in the air and whooping.

“Next in the Ring, we have Anthony Connor and Stanley Pines!” the announcer called dramatically. The crowd crescendoed as they cheered for the fighters, Fiddleford and Ford amongst them.

The two fighters joined in the center of the ring, shouldered by the referee.

“We went over the rules in the locker room. I want a clean fight; no hits below the belt and break when I tell you to break. You may touch gloves.” The referee instructed.

Stan and Anthony touched gloves before retreating to their corners.

A hush fell over the crowd. Fiddleford leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees in anticipation.

Finally, the bell rang and the two fighters trotted towards each other nimbly on the balls of their feet, fists drawn close.

A steady murmur rose from the crowd as the round progressed. The two fighters threw experimental jabs at each other, their movements lacking any real bite to it.

There was almost an unspoken agreement, Fiddleford noticed, between the two boxers. At once, there was force behind their jabs. Still, Fiddleford noticed the difference from this round to the last round he had seen Stan fight in. The third round had been much faster paced and brutal than this.

Perhaps the first round was meant for getting a feel of one’s opponent.

Or maybe it was something completely different. Fiddleford decided he’d have to try to remember to ask Stan later.

The two boxers moved around each other, seeming almost in sync as they’d move to the side, or suddenly dart forwards to exchange blows. It was rare that any good, powerful punches were thrown; mostly exchanging jabs with only the occasional punch thrown in the mix

Speaking of which, Stan darted forward, ducking and weaving his head before swinging a strong, left hook. His glove careened into the side of his opponents face with so much force that Anthony’s head turned to the side.

The crowd cheered loudly and Stan wasted no time in advancing swiftly, raining well-aimed punches at his opponent who had yet to recover from the initial hit.

It all happened in a few, quick moments. Stan landed several hard punches, forcing his opponent back. But Anthony recovered and threw a calculated punch at Stan, which he must have been anticipating as he leaped back in time to avoid it.

Fiddleford found himself getting excited with the crowd and started cheering. It occurred to him that Ford was already yelling encouragements to Stan; Fiddleford must have been too wrapped up in watching to notice.

Anthony advances towards Stan, drawing his fists closer to him. He threw a couple of weak jabs at Stan which barely seemed to affect him. Stan threw a couple in retaliation but immediately halted as the bell sounded.

The boxers crossed to their corners as the spectators clapped and whooped for them.

Stan sat down into the chair that someone set out for him. He glanced over towards him and Ford and flashed a cheeky wink at them.

“He’s feeling pretty good.” Ford commented. When Fiddleford glanced at Ford, he still had his gaze fixed on Stan with an unreadable expression.

Fiddleford smiled softly, looking back to Stan.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I recon he is feeling pretty good.”

The break concluded and the boxers rose to their feet again. The stools were pulled through the ropes and a few moments later, the bell rang again for round two.

This round was already much faster than the first. Stan rushed at Anthony, jabs already flying. Their heads rapidly moved back and forth as they dodged the others fists.

Where as in the previous round, Fiddleford could keep track (somewhat anyways) of what the two boxers were doing, they moved in almost a flurry, too quickly for Fiddleford to keep up with.

After just a short session with Stan, Fiddleford had a new found appreciation for boxing. He doubted he’d be able to move so fluidly, or even so much as think as someone was throwing punches at him, let alone dodge and calculate when to throw a punch back.

Yet both boxers moved as if second nature. This opponent seemed better than the previous. The first had the looks and power, but lacked the strategy to win. Anthony, at least to Fiddleford’s novice opinion, looked to part and had the knowledge to put up a good fight.

Judging by the wicked grin on Stan’s face and the fire in his eyes, he’d been itching for some good competition.

Still, Stan seemed to have an upper hand. It was as if he could telegraph when to dodge a punch, or when was the best time to hit his opponent with a hook. Even Fiddleford could tell that Stan was a natural boxer.

The bell rang again and the boxers fists dropped as they separated to their own corners.

As before, Stan glanced over to them. His face was flushed from exertion and the lights shining from the ceiling reflected on the sweat on his face.

Fiddleford had never seen him look so radiant.

Stan sat down in his chair once again and rolled his shoulders. Fiddleford could feel his own face burning up as he watched Stan’s muscles ripple from the movement.

Swallowing thickly, he glanced to Ford. “Seems like this guy is giving Stan a run for his money.”

Ford chuckled curtly, “Yeah, Stan likes a challenge though. He never did like an easy fight.”

Fiddleford turns his gaze back to Stan and he couldn’t help but agree with that statement. His demeanor was so much different with this fight. Confidence seemed to be oozing from his posture, yet the look in his eye told more about how much Stan was enjoying the fight.

It was nice to see Stan confident for once.

“You two are peas in a pod more than you two realize.” Fiddleford laughed, “You both love a challenge.”

From his periphery, he could see Ford turn to look at him. He hesitated before meeting Ford’s gaze and found that his friend had a fond smile on his lips.

“Yeah,” Ford agreed. “I never thought of that.”

Fiddleford snorted, “No offense, Stanford, but for how smart you are, sometimes you miss the things that are right underneath your nose.”

The two boxers stood from their chair, still standing in the corners. Once the chairs were out of the ring, the bell rang again.

The last round passed as a whirlwind. The two boxers were like two fire crackers, exploding from their corners and meeting each other in a flurry of punches. The spectators yelled loudly as fists were flying.

Inching forward until Fiddleford was sitting on the edge of his seat, his eyes darted as he tried to keep up with the movements in the ring. At times, they were more of a blur than a distinct shape and Fiddleford found himself getting pulled along in the excitement of it all.

“Come on, Stanley!” He yelled, “You got this!”

With some amusement, Fiddleford noticed how this round was similar to a game of tug of war or tag. One moment, Anthony would be fighting Stan back until he was nearly against the ropes. Then one strong punch would turn the tables, and it would be Stanley beating the other back into the opposite wall.

Both managed to land several good punches on each other. Stan was sporting a cut on his cheek while his opponent had blood dripping from his nose and a cut by his brow.

Fiddleford’s leg started hopping as if it had a mind of its own, but Fiddleford was barely aware of it. He barely seemed to blink, let alone pull his eyes away.

He had the utmost faith that Stan would come out on top of this fight, but he couldn’t quite pick out any one boxer that had the upper hand this fight. The dull thud of gloves on flesh reached his ears even through the noise of the crowd. It was nerve wracking to say the least.

“You got this, Stan!” Ford yelled.

It wasn’t just Ford that was cheering for Stan, Fiddleford noted with a hint of shock. In fact, there were several other voices from around the ring yelling Stan’s name or shouting encouragements to him.

Fiddleford doubted that Stan was actually aware of any of them, but the fact that people beyond him and Ford were cheering for Stan warmed his heart.

Finally, the final bell rang and the two fighters stopped their fight and parted from each other. The cheers were renewed from the crowd as the judges tallied up the votes.

Stan cast a cheeky look over his shoulder towards Ford and Fiddleford as the referee started to make his way to the center of the ring.

Taking both boxers glove in hand, the referee yelled above the noise of the spectators. “Winning, by the unanimous voting of three judges, Stanley Pines!”

Fiddleford and Ford leaped to their feet, cheering loudly as the referee hoisted Stan’s glove in the air. The rest of the crowd joined them in cheering. Stan briefly soaked in the moment, grinning widely and pointing his other glove in his and Ford’s direction before he exchanged a few words with his opponent that Fiddleford couldn’t hear.

Anthony’s reply was short, but he seemed good natured unlike the previous opponent who seemed almost bitter to lose to Stan. It seemed he hadn’t been foolish enough to judge Stan by his cover.

The boxers then left the ring to make room for the new fighters and Fiddleford and Ford quickly packed up their belongings before making their way to the locker room. Stan was already working to undo the strings to his gloves when he looked to see them approaching.

“You were amazin’ out there, Stanley!” Fiddleford exclaimed as they neared.

“Yeah, that was a spectacular fight!” Ford added.

Stan smiled sheepishly, “Heh, thanks guys. I thought he had me there.”

Fiddleford scoffed, “Nonsense! That fight was yours from the start.”

Maybe it was the flush on his face from the fight, but Fiddleford could have sworn he saw Stan blush.

“Guess that means one more fight, huh?” Stan said as he pulled off the gloves and tossed them to his bag.

“The finals! See, we told ya you could do this, Stanley!” Fiddleford reminded him.

Stan rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. Fine, you were right. Happy?”

He was busy unwinding the tape from his hands, but he spared an amused glance at Fiddleford.

“Uh, excuse me. I believe I was right as well.” Ford interjected with mock offense.

Stan rolled his eyes even more dramatically than the first time, “You were right, Sixer. That better?”

Ford nodded, looking happy with himself. Stan snorted affectionately and tossed the tape away. He pulled his jacket out from the bag and shrugged it around his shoulders, pulling the fur lining of the hood close.

“Let’s get you two nerds home so you can study.” He said, shouldering his bag. The trio made their way out of the locker room.

“Sure, but don’t think you’re getting out of letting me look at your face when we get home.” Fiddleford cut in.

“What? These little things? They’re not that big of a deal; I can handle it myself.”

“Stanley Pines...” Fiddleford began.

“Uh oh, he used your full name.” Ford muttered quietly.

“You know the drill by now. I’m looking at your face when we get home and that’s that.”

Stan groaned, “Yes, Ma.”

Little did the trio know, a new poster would be made up to advertise the final fight between Stanley Pines and Travis Ramirez. It would have a picture of the two boxers, taken from the second round. Their names were scrawled in thick letterin.

Fiddleford saw the poster on his way home from class the next day and took it off the activities board it was tacked up on to show Stan when he got home. However, he wouldn’t be the only one to find the poster and take it home.

* * *

“This is him, right?” The man said as he drops the flier onto a table. Another man with a scar above his forehead pulled the paper close, only having eyes for one man on the poster.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. It had been about a year since he’d last seen the man on the poster. His hair was longer and he didn’t have that thick caterpillar above his lip anymore, but it was definitely still him.

He’d recognize that smartass smirk anywhere, “Yes, that’s him.”

“What are ya gonna do, boss?” The other man asked.

A curt, cold laugh sounded from the boss as he leaned over the table.

“It’s time to get ol’ Stanley Pines to pay up.”


	14. Baptism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Stan fights in the final fight of the tournament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: another boxing chapter! Same as with the previous ones, I tried my best to keep it realistic, but I have zero experience with boxing. Please excuse any mistakes (or let me know in comments and I’ll try to fix it).  
> Warnings: mention of blood and violence

_Hold me to light, let me shine_  
_Come hold me to the floor and say it's alright_  
_Come hold me 'neath the water's skin until I'm new again_

The next two days passed similarly to the previous two.

Fiddleford and Ford were in the middle of finals week, and they seem to be getting more stressed as the days went on. They’d wake up at the crack of dawn, studying until their exam (sometimes exams, being plural), then come home, down almost an entire pot of coffee before studying again.

The bags were piling up under their eyes, and Ford in particular had an almost animal like look in his eyes that Stan knew too well from high school. He was almost constantly brewing a pot for the pair, which they drank almost as soon as it was made.

Ok, so some of that was maybe an exaggeration, but to Stan, it certainly seemed as if that was the case.

They had been insistent on going to the second fight on Monday, but that had been the first day of finals week.

He certainly didn’t think they’d want, nor be able to go to the last fight.

However, he was proven wrong.

As he came out of the bedroom he’d been sharing with Fiddleford with him gym bag over his shoulder, he was surprised to see Fiddleford and Ford packing a bag.

“Woah, woah, woah,” he chided, “Seriously guys, you’re crazy busy. You’re just going to stress yourselves out more if you come tonight.”

Fiddleford turned to look at him. His sandy hair was a bit unkept from the many times his lanky fingers had been tugging at it. His eyebrow was cocked as if Stan had said the most ridiculous thing.

“If you think I’m missin’ out on your last fight, you’ve lost your mind, Stanley.” He said, tucking one last book into his bag before pulling the strap over his shoulder.

Ford tilted his head towards his direction but didn’t look away as he stuffed a couple last things into his own bag, “‘Sides, Fiddleford and I still got a lot of studying done the last time. I’m sure we can afford the— what— eleven minute break to watch your fight?”

Stan sighed, knowing there was no convincing them. Ford and Fiddleford were two of the most stubborn men he knew, plus they’d already finished packing their bag.

There was no turning back after their minds were made up, but Stan wasn’t about to give up.

“I’m really not offended, guys. You’ve already seen two of them, plus you’ve put me up here and let me eat your food and what not. That’s plenty enough.”

Ford rolled his eyes, “We’ve already seen two, one more isn’t going to kill us. Plus, this is the last one. The most important one, for that matter. We’re coming and that’s that.”

How many years now had Stan yearned to have his brother by his side? He would have settled for anything beyond the radio silence between them, and now he had everything and more than he could have ever dared to hope for (at least while sober anyways. All gloves came off when he was drunk and alone).

“Oh!” Fiddleford suddenly exclaimed, jerking Ford’s and Stanley’s attention to him. He set his bag down on his desk and trotted to his room. Ford and Stan briefly shared a confused look as they heard the sounds of Fiddleford rifling through his room.

He came trotting back out a few minutes later with a Polaroid camera clutched in his hands.

“For when you win!” He explained seeing the twins confused expressions.

Stan’s cheeks flushed at that. He didn’t dare respond seeing as he didn’t trust his voice to not expose him for the sap he was. He watched as Fiddleford pulled his bag over his shoulder once again before slipping the strap to the camera around his neck.

“Ready to go?” Fiddleford asked.

The twins nodded and the trio pulled their coats from the hooks (Fiddleford and Ford briefly having to set their bags down in order to put their coats on).

The walk to the gym was brisk as it was starting to flurry. Dots of white slowly drifted down from the sky, illuminated by the yellowish light from the street lamps.

The warm air of the gym, packed with so many warm bodies was welcoming as they stepped inside.

Stan had been expecting people to greet him as they walked into the gym, as they had the last time, but he wasn’t expecting the overwhelming welcoming he received.

Heads seemed to turn as Stan entered. Years of instinct and experience from being on the road screamed at him to turn and run. Having this much attention on him never ended in anything good. It was best to get out before things got ugly.

He was so wrapped up in his head that he couldn’t make out what the people were calling over to him. However, as two hands gripped either of his shoulders and squeezed, he jumped.

Both Ford and Fiddleford each had a hand on his shoulders. Their excited smiles partially wavered as Stan flinched from their touch.

A too-loud laugh bellowed from Stan’s gut as he slung an arm around his twin and friend.

“What a welcome, eh?” Thankfully, their smiles returned and they released his shoulders in favor of putting their arms around his back.

The rules of the road didn’t apply here. Not when he finally had a home surrounded by family and friends who he could trust.

The trio made their way back to the dressing room again. There was significantly less boxers than there had been in previous rounds, but all of their gazes turned to watch them as they entered. There were a few fights prior to Stan’s, which was planned to be the last fight of the night. Despite this, the prize was between him and his opponent seeing as they had gained the most points over the course of the competition.

Stan recognized Anthony towards the back and lifts a hand in greeting.

Dropping his hands from the Ford’s shoulders, he lets his bag drop to the floor.

“Good luck tonight, Stanley.” Fiddleford said, playfully punching Stan’s shoulder.

Ford ruffled his hair, “You got this, Stan. If I was a gambling man, my money would be all on you.”

Stan sniffed, wrapping his arms around their backs in a half hug. He told himself he wasn’t going to get emotional (which he wasn’t, dammit! His nose was just running because of the cold) but he still couldn’t believe how much his life had changed in the course of a few weeks.

“Don’t worry, I still have plenty of time to turn you into a gamblin’ man.” Stan teases. No, his voice was definitely not wavering.

The Ford’s offered him one last pat on the shoulders before leaving him to get ready. He set to work wrapping his hands, casting away his thoughts in favor for getting himself in the right head space for the fight.

* * *

The crowds applause was dying down as the latest boxers left the stage. Stan shook his shoulders out one last time, taking in a deep breath to calm his rising nerves.

“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the last fight of the evening, contending for first place.”

The crowd was louder than ever as they cheered. “Fighting in one corner, Troy Miller!”

His opponent, a bulky man in his mid 20’s with cropped brown hair trotted to the ring as the crowd cheered.

“Fighting in the other corner, Stanley Pines!”

Stan cracked his neck before jogging to the stage, stony, determined expression on his face. The spectators were cheering loudly, and Stan could just barely make out Fiddleford and Ford’s voices out among them.

Stan and his opponent met in the center of the ring as the ref walked to join them.

“Remember gentlemen, I want a clean fight. Protect yourself at all times, no punches below the belt, and break when I tell you to break. You may touch gloves.” The referees voice was rehearsed. Stan touched gloves with his opponents before turning their backs to one another as they retreated to their corners.

The crowd mostly died down except for a few stragglers. There was a few moments of silence where Stan could hear his heart thumping in his chest until the bell rang.

Stan and his opponent both trotted towards each other, stopping just out of reach. They hopped a few steps to the left, then a few more to the right, testing each other. Stan swing his fist lazily, not reaching his opponent, who did the same a few moments later.

They inched a bit closer to each other, pulling their fists closer to the sides of their face. His opponents gaze burned into Stan’s, but Stan refused to back down. His determined gaze didn’t stray. He threw several jabs, which his opponent either ducked or dodged.

Stan’s head weaved back and forth, anticipating the jab aimed at him. He blocked it and swung a quick punch as his opponents arm was still extended. His punch landed on his ribs and his opponents eyes narrowed.

Stan hopped back a few steps, allowing his opponent to advance towards him. The other darted forward a few extra steps, throwing a series of quick punches and jabs. Stan blocked most of them but a few hit their mark, the impact of the gloves to his body reverberating in his bones.

He threw a few quick punches in retaliation, hitting his opponent several times before they sprang away from each other.

Hopping on the balls of their feet, their dance resumed as they weaves side to side before approaching again with fists swinging.

Stan was barely aware of the punches hitting his body as the blood pounded louder in his ears.

A few hops closed the distance between them and they fell into the routine of exchanging a few quick blows before separating. By the time the bell rang again, Stan’s body was starting to feel bruised.

He retreated to his corner, winking at Ford and Fiddleford as the two of them loudly whooped and cheered for him.

He sank down into his chair, leaning forward as he stared at his opponent (or as best as he could considering his trainer had stepped in and was crouched in front of him).

Steading his breathing, he clenched his hands in his gloves. This guy was certainly a good fighter and was definitely going to give Stan a run for his money. Stan needed the prize though, and he wasn’t going to let this guy stand in the way.

He was sure that by now, he had a good chance of getting a job in the gym regardless of if he won, considering how much the people seemed to like him, maybe even a job as a trainer, but there was more to it than that.

He wanted the money. He wanted to win. Just once, he wanted to win something in his life. Something that could make a difference.

With the winnings, he could pay Fiddleford and Ford back for what they had done for him. He could prove to them that he could pull his own weight. That he wasn’t going to mooch off of them or ride on their coat tails.

That Stan Pines could actually be something other than a loser.

The minute break was soon up and Stan rose to his feet as someone approached to take the stool from the ring.

Rolling his shoulder with a satisfying grinding sound, he waited as the bell finally rang.

Fists drawn up, the two boxers jogged to the center, getting within reach of each other without the need for any test swings.

His opponent was the first to throw a punch. Stan blocked it and swung his opposite arm out with a strong punch. His opponent met him with a strong punch of his own and the two locked together as they threw punches.

A low grunt left Stan’s lips as a punch crushed into his diaphragm. The air briefly left his lungs and he took a few steps back to force air into his lungs.

To his own credit, his opponent looked just as winded and sported a small cut on his cheek, blood slowly weeping from the abrasion.

The two weaved back and forth on the tips of their toes.

Stan made the first move this time, throwing a jab at his opponent which was easily blocked. He threw a jab from the opposite arm, quickly punching with the other hand before his opponent took advantage of the opening Stan left.

His punch landed and he heard the breath leave his opponent. Stan didn’t waste time waiting for him to recover or back away. One punch in particular had his opponent staggering back against the ropes. He quickly recovered and step sided to give himself some more space for movement.

Stan took a few steps back, fists held towards the side of his head as he eyed his opponent. To his satisfaction, he found that he was looking rather winded and battered.

After that, the round continued in routine. It was faster paced than the last round. The breaks in between bouts of swings was few and far in between.

At last, the bell finally rang and the boxers broke for their corners. Stan was panting at the end of that round, and only had the energy to lift his glove towards Ford and Fiddleford before sinking onto the stool.

The crowd was alight with chatter and shouts of encouragement. Stan could make out his name amongst the chatter and felt his chest swell ever so slightly. He leaned over slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he caught his breath.

He’d need all the energy and stamina he could get for the last round. Luckily, his opponent looked just as winded as him, if not a bit more so. Across the ring, he could see the others coach dabbing a cloth to the cut, cleaning most of the blood that had already leaked out. Stan merely sniffed and swiped his glove across his forehead, wicking away the sweat.

He was prepared to give this round his all, to push himself and dig deep until he had nothing left to give. He was so focused on mentally prepping himself that before he knew it, it was time to get to his feet again.

The stool was taken from the ring and Stan watched his opponent intently, eyes narrowing with determination. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears but he no longer felt nervous.

Boxing was the one thing he could do right and he was damn good at it. He was going to show everyone just what Stan Pines was made of.

The bell finally rang and Stan burst towards his opponent. Their fists were a blur as they frantically swung at each other. Stan barely felt the blows as they careened into his body. His pulse hammered in his ears and his limbs tingled from the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Despite the hard, determined look in his eyes, a smirk tugged at his lips.

The two boxers were all over the ring. One moment, Stan was forcing his opponent back, then was stepping back again to avoid as many of the punches as he could.

A full ache was spreading throughout his torso and he had to blink the sweat (or was it blood?) from his eyes as it rolled from his brow. His resolve didn’t wain. Clenching his fists tighter, he forced his opponent back again in a series of punches.

A punch came from the right and crashed into the side of his face, sending him staggering a few steps to the side from the force of the impact. His nose ached in a familiar way and he could feel the blood beginning to drip from his nostrils.

Seeing the satisfied, almost cocky, grin on his opponents face made the grin on his own face drop. A twisted smirk took its place.

Squaring his feet, he sniffed hard once, ignoring the metallic taste that dripped down the back of his throat. Taking a deep breath, he rushed his opponent again, his fists flying with a fury and speed he hadn’t seen since Columbia.

Bombarded by the force of Stan’s punches, his opponent stumbled back, struggling to block all of the blows. Seeing an opening, Stan let out a loud yell as he threw his signature move— a left hook.

His glove smashed into the side of his opponents head. Already off balance, the other boxer lost his footing and fell to the floor speckled with Stan’s blood.

He paused, waiting for his opponent to get up, but he only slowly churned. It was as if he was trying to move underwater. The crowd, tuned out until now, roared and people were jumping to their feet. The ref approached from Stan’s periphery.

His opponents eyes had a glazed look to them and Stan knew then that he wasn’t getting up. The ref counted down and called the fight.

If Stan thought the crowd couldn’t get any louder, he was wrong. The noise crescendoed in cheers and shouts. Above it all, Stan could make out Ford and Fiddleford’s voices cheering for him.

He won. He really did it. Slowly, his lips curled into a grin and he turned to Ford and Fiddleford. Extending a fist towards them, he winked.

Other people had entered the ring by this point and were tending to his opponent, who staggered to his feet with their help. The referee approached Stan and took his glove.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this fight, and overall champion of the tournament by TKO, Stanley Pines!” His glove was hoisted into the air and Stan raised his other one, basking in the cheers he received from the crowd.

For the first time in his life, he had won something that was worthwhile.

His eyes found Ford and Fiddleford once again and despite all the other people around them, he could easily make out their expressions of joy.

Someone else approached him from the ropes and hung a metal from around his neck. Another person came with a camera and took his picture. From the corner of his eye, he could make out a flash from the Ford’s direction.

First chance he got, he ducked out of the ring to where Fiddleford and Ford came to greet him. Along the way, people clapped his back and shoulders, words of congratulations on their lips.

He barely heard them as he saw Ford and Fiddleford weaving through the crowd.

“Stanley, that was amazing!” Fiddleford exclaimed, practically gushing, “You knocked him out! I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life!”

Small arms encircled him and Fiddleford’s body was pressed to his. Stan didn’t hesitate as he wrapped his arms around him.

“You fought fantastically, Stanley!” Ford said as he pushed through the last of the people around them.

Stan grinned, cheeks flushing from all of the praise. Reaching out, he gripped Ford’s shoulders and yanked him into the hug.

“Get over here, nerd!” Stan said, “I couldn’t have done this without either of you.”

A six fingered hand ruffled his hair, “Sure you could have.”

Another drop of blood was making its way out of his nose.

“As touching as this all is, I don’t want to get blood or sweat all over ya.” Stan laughed. The trio parted but Fiddleford didn’t step away. In anything, he moved closer as his face was only inches from Stan’s as he eyed his nose thoughtfully.

“Did ‘e break your nose again?” He asked, lips creasing into a frown.

Stan scoffed, “Its nothin’. I barely feel it.”

This did little to pacify Fiddleford.

“I know the drill; I’ll let ya have a look at it in the back if that’ll make ya feel better.” Stan added.

Fiddleford smiled. “Good, but first, get in with your brother. I want a picture of you two out here.”

Fiddleford stepped back as Ford took his place. Stan draped an arm around his brothers shoulders, pulling him in close. Ford’s hand settled around his side, as Fiddleford lifted the camera.

Before he could take the picture, a man stepped out of the crowd. He wore a plain black t-shirt, but oddly enough, sported a scar on his cheek.

“I can take that if you want to get in.” The man offered to Fiddleford. The southern man grinned and thanked the man as he handed his camera over.

Something about the man didn’t seem quite right. Stan’s eyes meticulously watched his movements, half expecting him to run off with Fiddleford’s camera.

Yet as Fiddleford stopped at the other side of Stan, he raised the camera to take the picture. Throwing his other arm around Fiddleford, he grinned as he pulled his twin and best friend close.

The camera flashed and the film was ejected from the camera.

Fiddleford darted forward again to take his camera back from the man.

“Thank ya so much.” Fiddleford said as he tucked the Polaroid into his breast pocket.

The man merely nodded and turned to Stan, “Good fight tonight, Stan.”

That weird feeling returned. The man lacked the enthusiasm that the other people who had congratulated him had, and there was a look in his eye that Stan couldn’t make out.

He jerked his head in a nod, “Thanks.”

The man's gaze lingered on him for perhaps a moment too long before he turned around and disappeared back into the crowd.

“How about we get you back into the locker room so we can get your nose looked at?” Fiddleford said as he turned back to the brothers.

Neither he nor Ford seemed put off by the guy, so maybe it was just his imagination. Pushing the thought from his head, he grinned.

“Whatever you want, Fiddlesticks.”

* * *

A half an hour of fussing from Fiddleford’s part later, the trio was walking home. Stan’s winnings and his metal was tucked into his gym bag along with his gloves and tape. The temperature had dropped even more and the snow was still falling. Only now there was at least an inch already on the ground.

“What are ya gonna do now, Stanley? You have your winnin’s now.” Fiddleford asked, a hint of trepidation in his voice which Stan found odd. Did the nerd really think he was going to hop town now that he had money for gas?

As if he was going to leave now when things were finally as they should be.

“Well,” Stan started, “I’m going to look into seeing if the gym will hire me. I’ll take anything at this point, but I think I have a pretty good shot to be a boxing instructor. Also, I can finally help you two out more since you’ve let me stay at your place and let me eat your food and all that.”

Fiddleford looked towards Stan, “Ya really don’t have to do that, Stanley. That’s what friends are for.”

“And family.” Ford interjected.

Stan laughed, if not a bit forced, “Yeah, well I’m not gonna be mooching off you guys anymore. I’m gonna pull my own weight around here.”

Ford’s head turned towards him, a sad frown on his lips.

“No ones thinking you’re mooching off of us, Stan.” He said seriously. “You should keep the winnings for yourself.”

“What’s the fun in that? ‘Sides, Stan Pines doesn’t take no hand outs.”

Ford opened his mouth to protest but a look from Fiddleford that Stan couldn’t make out shut him up.

“Well, if you really want to do somethin’ for us, how about you get us some alcohol after finals week so we can celebrate!” Fiddleford cut in cheerfully.

Not for the first time, Stan was thankful for the change of topic.

Fiddleford leaned close, covering the side of his mouth with a hand, “I’ll bring the weed, of course.”

He winked at Stan’s excited expression. To his side, Ford groaned.

“I’ll pass.”

They were getting close to their apartment. Stan was looking forward to a warm shower. The dim street lights cast a yellow glow on the trio as they passed the buildings bordering the sidewalk.

“Stanley Pines!” A voice that didn’t belong to Ford or Fiddleford called out. The trio halted and Stan turned around, expecting to see another fan that wanted to congratulate him on his fight.

Only, the sidewalk was strangely empty save for their tracks in the snow.

Footsteps sounded from behind them, and fear crawled up Stanley’s back. He’d been in situations like this too many times to count on the road, and they never ended well for him.

This time, it wasn’t just him he had to worry about. He had Ford and Fiddleford beside him who had never (to his knowledge at least) had to worry about a situation like this.

These thoughts filtered through Stan’s brain in moment. He was just starting to spin around, starting to make out the shapes of two figures coming out of the alley just in front of them, when an object was swung towards them.

With a sickening thud, Ford and Fiddleford collapsed beside him. He tensed, eyes wide as he recognized one of them as the man from earlier who had taken their picture.

“Rico sends his regards, but you’ll see him soon enough.” The man spoke up, sending a wave of dread through Stan’s bruised body. Another set of footsteps sounded behind him, but before he had a chance to turn around, pain exploded from his head and his vision went dark as the ground rose to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kinda fucked up the time line when I drew the picture. It should be around 1973, rather than 1976.


	15. Black Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan and the Ford's are confronted with Stan's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief mentions of blood and mild torture.

_My thoughts are the cold kind, I’ve got storm clouds that are brewing behind my eyes_  
_And my heart will be blacker than your eyes when I’m through with you_

A groan broke the silence as it left parted lips, echoing off of the cold concrete walls. 

Stan cracked his eyes open, wincing at the painful throbbing of his head. Yeesh, his head hurt more than the worst hangover he had experienced in Vegas that one time. His thoughts were sluggish in his head as he looked around the room, struggling to comprehend what was happening. His eyes took in the sights around him, but for a moment, didn’t sank in. 

When it finally did, his heart nearly stopped in his chest and he let out a small gasp that sounded all too loud in the suffocating silence. He was restrained to a small chair in the middle of what looked like a large warehouse. The feeling of his hands tied behind the back of the chair was one that was all too familiar and sent a flash of panic dow his back. The room was mostly empty save for debris littering the floor and two other chairs. 

Chairs that Ford and Fiddleford were tied to.

His eyes raked over their figures, begging and hoping to a god he’d long stopped believing in that they were ok. He had to squint into the dim lighting to search out the rise and fall of their chests and nearly sagged in relief when he realized they were only unconscious. However, he could make out a dark shadow on the side of their face in the darkness. 

Blood. 

‘Think, Stan. How are you getting them out of this?’ He coached himself, forcing him to take a few steadying breaths. He would be of no help if he was panicking. 

He’d been plenty of situations much like this one over the years, the only difference being he wasn’t alone now. He supposed he should have been comforted by that, but rather, he was disturbed. 

Every man for himself. That was what he was used to. Getting out of sticky situations was a lot easier when he only had to worry about himself. 

Fiddleford and Ford were only in this situation because of him, and had no experience with loan sharks or criminals (besides himself of course). 

They were relying entirely on him to get them out of this. 

Pulling and wiggling his hands, he tested the ropes keeping his hands bound behind the chair. There was the sound of fabric rustling from behind him.

“I see you’re awake.” A voice suddenly sounded from somewhere outside of his line of vision. 

His body froze. He recognized that voice. (More so, he recognized Rico’s love for cliche lines.)

Footsteps, slow and purposeful, closed in from just behind him. Rico came into view, hard glare on his face, bringing with it unwanted memories from jail that made him wince. 

“I see you remember me.” He continued walking past Stan, coming to a halt between Ford and Fiddleford. His arms reached out, resting a hand on either of their heads. Threading his fingers through their hair, he pulled their heads so that they were no longer slumped forward. 

The motion stirred the two of them into consciousness. They groaned as their eyes blinked open sluggishly. Shivers went down Stan’s spine at the sight of their cloudy eyes. Slowly, the cloudiness was replaced with fear and shock as the realization of what they were stuck in hit them.

Stuck in because of Stanley. 

“Rico, please, let them go.” He pleaded, leaning as far forward as his restraints would allow, “They didn’t do anything to you — to anyone. Please, just let them go and we can settle this between us.” 

A loud laugh tumbled from Rico. Stan’s eyes flickered to Ford and Fiddleford, trying to portray a multitude of things. I’m sorry. It’ll be ok. I’ll get you out of here. 

“Do you remember the debt you owe me?” Rico growled at him, “Do you remember how you screwed me over? Intentionally, might I add. Left me behind to take all the blame while you ran off free with my money?” 

Stanley gulped. He could feel Ford looking at him with a confused, if not angry glare. 

“It wasn’t personal, Rico. I can pay you back for the money, I swear.” 

Rico laughed scornfully, “I’m not interested in your whore money.” Stan’s jaw dropped and he can feel his face heating up. Ford definitely was staring angrily at him and Stan can’t blame him. 

“You think I didn’t know what you’ve been up to since you skipped out on us. I know all about how you whore yourself out for cash, and I’m not interested in it. This is personal now, and I’m gonna make sure you learn not to fuck with me.” 

“Stanley?” Ford asked. Stan flinched at his voice. He didn’t mean for him to find out this way. “You didn’t—“ 

He was so disgusted with Stan that he couldn’t even finish his sentence. Stan’s gaze dropped to his lap, unable to meet his twin’s gaze. Familiar shame prickled within him. 

“Didn’t know that about your brother, did you?” Rico asked turning to Ford. Stan’s gaze snapped to watch. Ford was tense, trying to inch as far away from him as he could go but Rico’s hands were still firmly grasping his hair and keeping him in place. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about your brother.”

“Rico, let them go!” Stan cut him off, not wanting Ford to hear what Rico might have to say, afraid of what else Rico knew. 

What’s worse, he recognized the edge in Rico’s voice. 

Rico’s gaze flashed to him and a wicked grin curled on his lips. “You’re going to learn, Stan,” he said, turning his attention to Ford with hungry eyes. Stan felt sick, knowing too well what would happen next. 

“No one messes with Rico.” 

Stan thrashed in his seat, lips spewing out a slew of pleas that fell on deaf ears. Rico crouched down behind Ford. His brother’s eyes stared ahead at Stan, wide, confused and pleading. Even when they had been bullied and beat up as kids, Stan had never seen that much raw fear in his brothers eyes. At least then he could defend Ford back then. He’d never felt more helpless (useless) than he did being tied up and unable to do anything to protect his brother from Stan’s mistakes.

“Six fingers, huh?” Rico commented from behind Ford’s back. “You never mentioned you had a freak for a brother, Stan.” 

“Don’t you dare talk abo—“ Stan began but was cut off by a loud, sickening crack, followed by Ford’s scream. 

Beside him, Fiddleford looked sick. His skin was drained of all color and his eyes are wide as he stared at Rico, still behind Ford’s chair. Despite being tied up, his leg jumped rapidly.

Stan saw red and a colourful string of obscenities left his mouth. 

“Ah, ah.” Rico chided, sickeningly sweet. He poked his head from behind Ford’s back, “Watch your mouth, Stan.” His hands moved back to Ford’s hands, his gaze never leaving Stan’s

“No!” Ford gasped, weakly struggling against the restraints. 

Stan promptly shut up, keeping his eyes trained on Rico, pleading with his eyes. 

“That’s better.” Rico said, straightening up. He curled a finger under Ford’s jaw, forcing the older twin to look at him. 

Raw fear was plain to see on Ford’s face. It was a foreign emotion on the face of a man who usually kept his expressions schooled.

They had to get out of here. As subtly as he could, Stan tried to loosen the restraints. Unfortunately, whoever tied them had done a good job. Taking a breath, Stan grasped one of his thumbs in his hands and bit his lips to muffle his groan as he sharply tugged, forcing his thumb to dislocate. 

Rico was still admiring a fearful Ford. At least he hadn’t heard what Stan was doing. He grasped his opposite thumb to repeat the action.

“Rico,” he called, satisfied as Rico’s attention turned to him, “You’ve scared them enough. Please, you can do anything you want with me, just let them go.” 

Fiddleford shakes his head at him, frightened eyes begging Stan. A gentle smile tugged at Stan’s lips despite everything. Stan was the one who had gotten them into this situation. Ford was hurt because of him, and god knows how this would affect them mentally after this; Stan knew too well that an experience as terrifying as this had a way of haunting a person. 

It was his fault they were dragged into this in the first place, and it was his responsibility to get them out of this, no matter what that might spell out for Stan. 

Yet Fiddleford was still concerned about him. 

Stan didn’t deserve him. 

Even if they did all get out of this, Stan knew he had lost them. He’d known his past would sneak up on him at some point and ruin his new life, but he’d never imagined that it would happen like this. 

He never would have stayed if he could have known.

Rico’s gaze briefly looked from Stan to Fiddleford as he followed Stan’s gaze. His lips curled into a sinister grin.

“I was wondering what your connection to this guy was.” Rico said, approaching Fiddleford. 

“I should have guessed the whore was also a faggot.” 

Stan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Tucking his thumb close to his palm, he tried wiggling free of his binds. 

Rico pulled a lighter from his pocket, holding it under Fiddleford’s chin. The engineer’s eyes widened in fear

“Rico, please...” Stan began, voice dripping with desperation. He was cut off as Rico sharply glared at him. 

Lighter still held in one hand, Rico pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it. 

The whole time, Stan’s eyes were trained on his movements, his heart hammering in his chest. 

This was all his fault. He should have known better than to get to close to Ford and Fiddleford. He had been so happy to finally have his twin back, as well as a friend, but he was a fool to think he could stay without consequences. Good things just didn’t happen to Stan Pines. 

Rico took a long drag of the cigarette, pausing for a moment before blowing the smoke into Fiddleford’s face. The southern man coughed, eyes watering from the smoke. 

Rico pocketed the lighter and turned his gaze back to Fiddleford. “You knew he was a whore.” It was not a question, “Yet his brother didn’t. You must be pretty special to him.” 

Dread sank into Stan’s gut like a cinder block in water. 

“Rico, don’t—“ There was an edge to his voice now. Just a little bit longer. He was so close to wiggling out of the restraints. 

Rico took one last drag of his cigarette before pushing Fiddleford’s shirt collar down. The engineer was whimpering, feebly trying to inch away from Rico. 

The scream that tore through Fiddleford’s lips as Rico stubbed the lit end of the cigarette out on his collarbone shattered Stan’s heart. Stan had endured similar tortures, and despite his scars being long healed, they seemed to burn as Fiddleford screamed. 

“Please, Rico, please!” Stan desperately begged. “I-I’ll do anything; I’ll get you the money, you can do whatever you want to me! I swear, just please, for God’s sake, let them go!” 

Rico’s laugh was cold. His eyes burned Stan as if he was stubbing his cigarette off on him.

“I think my work here is done. For now, anyways. I’m going to give you three and opportunity to chat whilst I discuss some ideas with an associate.” His lips curled devilishly at the word ‘ideas’. 

Now extinguished, the cigarette was flicked to the floor. Turning on his heels, Rico put his hands on the top of Ford and Fiddleford’s head for a brief moment before exiting the room. 

The door shut with a loud ‘clank’ that echoed around the room. After it, there was silence except for Fiddleford’s harsh breathing. 

Stan sat tensely in his chair. He knew he should say something, he owed them that much at least, but his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. 

”Stanley,” Ford eventually spoke up. Stan winced at his tone. He’d just gotten his brother back. As much as he knew it would happen eventually, he wasn’t ready to lose him again. He didn’t think he would handle it a second time, “What is going on?”

Stan sighed, hanging his head in shame. “Rico and I were business partners at one point. He wasn’t anything like what he is now back when I knew him. Though maybe it was because I was on his good side then.” Stan explained. 

“H-how’d you get on his bad side?” Fiddleford asked quietly. 

“A deal went bad. We both ended up in jail for it.” He swallowed thickly, realizing that was another thing Ford didn’t know about. “I ended up taking a bargain; I ratted Rico out in order to get out earlier, but in exchange, he got a longer sentence. I knew where we hid the money, so when I got out of jail, I dug it up and ran off.” 

A heavy sigh left Ford’s lips, one that reminded Stan of their father whenever Stan had done something to disappoint him. 

“I know! I know it was dumb but it was a lot of money! I was able to pay back some other guys I owed money to and still had some left over to stay at a motel for a month or two. That’s— that’s nothing short of a luxury for me and it was too tempting to leave behind.”

Stan sighed, looking up to Ford and Fiddleford with pleading eyes, “I never imagined that Rico would involve you two. Maybe that was wishful thinking or just plain stupid but I never would have stuck around if I knew he’d involve you guys in my mess.” 

Fiddleford looked sad at Stan’s last statement and despite how much of a relief it was that he didn’t seem pissed at Stan, he knew he didn’t deserve his sympathy or his compassion. 

“What did he mean when he said you were a— a-“ Ford asked, stammering as he was unable to finish. 

“A whore?” Stan supplied bluntly. Ford winced but jerked out a nod, “I wanted to tell you. Eventually. I was just— I was ashamed.” 

“But you told Fiddleford?” Ford retorted, voice rising. 

Fiddleford cut in, “He only told me because that’s why I found him the way I did in the alley.” 

Ford seemed somewhat placated by this. “How long?” 

Stan couldn’t meet his burning gaze. “A while.” 

“And you— you what? Sold yourself out? While you were here?” Ford’s voice was rising again and the familiar prickle of shame ran down Stan’s back. 

“I never wanted to do it!” He retorted, “But when you’re desperate and can’t remember the last time you ate anything, it’s a quick way to get a meal.” 

“We have the same face, Stanley! How many people in this town think I slapped on some horrid wig and sold myself for a few quick bucks?” Ford was irate at this point and while Stan couldn’t really blame him, what other choice had he had? 

“Ok, for one, it’s more than just a few bucks? Do you understand how much one night can bring in? I can afford to put gas in my tank, buy food, and sometimes even get a motel for a few nights.” Stan retorted, “Secondly, only one person has seen my face in this town and I highly doubt you’d associate with the likes of him.” Stan shuddered at the memory. 

Ford seemed to deflate. He let out a long sigh as he looked away from Stan. 

Fiddleford finally spoke up again, his voice low yet calm. Gentle even. “How are we going to get out of here. I don’t exactly want to stick around for whatever ideas Rico has in store for us when he comes back.” 

Stan leveled a confident gaze to Fiddleford, “I have an idea.”


	16. From the Mouth of an Injured Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Stans argue and shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note; I don’t know a lick of Spanish. I used google translate and we all know just how accurate that is so I apologize for any mistakes.  
> Warnings for mild violence.

_Well, hold me against the floor_  
_Find something to bind my hands_  
_'cause I don't know where I have been_  
_And I don't know what I have seen_  
_But the puzzle is carved into me_

“You have a plan?” Stanford asked, with an edge of skepticism. 

Stan grunted out a “yep”, as he wiggled around in his seat, pulling at the restraints. He was so close. All he needed was to inch his hands just a little more and he’d be free. 

“Aha!” Stan exclaimed as he pulled his hands out of the restraints. He did take a moment to take in Ford and Fiddleford’s wide eyes before crouching down to undo the ties at his feet. 

Once he was free, he got to his feet and hurried to Ford. As he crouched behind his twin he winced at the painful angle of Ford’s finger. 

“He really did a number on your finger.” Stan whistled, moving to untie Ford’s feet once his hands were free. 

Ford merely hummed in response, pointedly not meeting his gaze as he cradled his hand close to his chest. 

Once Ford was free, Stan hurried to Fiddleford to do the same to him. 

“How’d you get out? Knife tucked into your sleeve? Use your keys or somethin’?” Fiddleford asked curiously.

Stan moved to Fiddleford’s feet once his hands were free. He snorted, “Try dislocating my thumbs. Makes your hand small enough to wiggle through the ropes.” 

Fiddleford’s eyes bugged out of his head, lips sputtering as he tried to utter a sentence. Stan rested a handle on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“Don’t freak out; it’s fine. We’ll have time to get all of us fixed up once we get out of here” He said, portraying more confidence than he was actually feeling. 

“Just how are we getting out of here?” Ford asked. 

Stan bit his lip. His was wracking his brain trying to come up with some sort of plan. He was more used to flying by the seat of his pants, but he couldn’t afford to take any serious risks with Ford and Fiddleford relying on him to get them out of here, “I’m working on it.” 

Distantly, the sound of voices from the hallway was growing louder. As the source of the voice got closer, Stan recognized it as Rico. 

“Follow my lead!” Stan hissed to the Fords quietly, scrambling back to his seat. He kicked the binds further under the chair, hopefully out of sight and crossed his arms behind the chair. Fiddleford and Ford did the same. Their eyes were wide and Fiddleford in particular looked quite panicked. 

“Hey, Fiddlesticks,” Stan replied, voice even. Fiddleford’s eyes locked to him, fear swimming in his blue eyes. Stan smiled softly, “It’ll be ok. We’ll get out of this.” 

Fiddleford jerked out a nod, attempting to smile though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Judging by the sound, Rico was right outside the door. The door opened with a squeal that made the trio wince. 

“I hope you three enjoyed your chat.” Rico greeted them, footsteps slow and purposeful. “We’ll be moving on to the next step of our little meeting now.”

He came to a stop in front of Fiddleford. The lanky man was trembling like a leaf, staring at Rico with wide, fearful eyes. Rico gripped his chin harshly, angling the southern man’s head towards him.

“If you enjoyed the warmup, you’re going to love this.” Stan couldn’t make out the expression on his face with his back to him, but he could only imagine the bloodthirsty smirk on his lips. 

He had to act fast; Rico’s back was towards him, and he was preoccupied with Fiddleford that if Stan was careful, Rico wouldn’t be paying attention to him. 

Slowly, Stan stood from his seat, keeping his eyes fixed on Rico to make sure he wouldn’t turn around. From the corner of his eyes, he could make out Ford’s eyes widening as he watched him reach for a piece of debris lying nearby. 

Stan jerked his head at Rico, silently begging Ford to not give them away. Luckily, his twin seemed to catch on and turned his gaze to Rico. 

“You’re such a nervous little thing,” Rico cooed to Fiddleford. He reached into his back pocket. Jerking his hand, a pocket knife slid out, reflecting the silvery moonlight that streamed through a hole in the roof. He drug the flat face of the blade against Fiddleford’s cheek. The southern man trembled in his seat, “You’re right to be nervous, if you knew just what I have planned for you three.” 

Soundlessly, Stan inched his way behind Rico. Luckily, Fiddleford kept his gaze on Rico, though whether it was because he knew not to give Stan away or was too fearful to tear his gaze away from the man holding a knife to his face, Stan wasn’t sure. Inhaling silently, he wound his arms back and swung with as much force as he could muster. The wood crashed into the side of Rico’s head and he fell limply to the floor revealing Fiddleford’s wide eyes. 

Rico doesn’t stir and Stan dropped the debris, looking to Fiddleford. 

“You doing okay there, Fidds?” He asked. He crouched down in front of him and guided him to his feet. He received no answer. 

Frown creasing on his face, Stan cupped Fiddleford’s cheeks with gentle hands. He hated the way Fiddleford initially flinched. Fiddleford was such a kind and trusting person; he should never know what it’s like to fear someone’s touch. 

“Fiddleford, I’m gonna need ya to take a deep breath for me, ok?” Stan instructed quietly. He mimicked a deep breath, which Fiddleford did after a moment's delay. 

The dam seemed to break and Fiddleford was trembling all over again. Tears welled in his eyes but they didn’t spill over. 

“Everything will be fine, okay. Ford and I will make sure no one else hurts you and you’ll be home before you know it,” he offered a strained smile, “I’m better at getting out of messes than getting into them.”

Ford was at his side again, so Stan pulled himself away from Fiddleford to let his brother take over. He directed his attention to Rico, retrieving the pocket knife he dropped before hooking his arms underneath Rico’s armpits. 

Stan drug him to a chair and hoisted him up into it with a grunt. He tied Rico to the chair, double checking that the knots were tight before turning back to the Fords. 

Luckily, Fiddleford seemed calmer than he had before, even though he still looked scared shitless. He half considered handing the knife to Ford, but figured it’d be useless if his brother didn’t know how to use it properly. Instead, he pocketed the knife and retrieved several more pieces of debris from the floor. He handed one to Ford, who jerked a confused, owlish look at him. 

“Use this to protect yourself. Rico wasn’t alone here so we might have to deal with them on our way out.” Stan explained. He held out another piece of debris to Fiddleford. 

The southern man’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon. “No, I can’t.” He objected weakly. 

“Here’s the deal,” Stan said, addressing both of them, “We’re going to leave, but we have to be careful. If they catch us again, whatever they had planned for us will be a walk in the park for what they’re going to do. We’re going to have to move quietly but quickly, and you can’t be afraid to hurt someone if they try to attack us. It’s either us or them, and I know I sure as hell would prefer for it to be them.” 

Hesitantly, Fiddleford nodded and took the wood from Stan’s hand. 

Stan nodded at him with a soft smile before retrieving another piece of debris for himself. 

“You’re awful quiet, Sixer. You doing okay?” Stan asked as he rejoined the pair. 

Ford sighed, “I’m fine.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow. Dealing with Ford felt like pulling teeth sometimes. 

“Come on, Sixer. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Stan asked, growing impatient. They didn’t exactly have a huge time window here and couldn’t afford to waste any time. 

Ford looked to him sharply, “I’m pissed, Stanley. Fiddleford and I should be studying at home right now. Instead we’re here in this hellhole with a man who wants to hurt us because you took his money. Not to mention you’re a prostitute, and told Fiddleford before you told me.” 

Anger rose sharply in Stan’s gut. A growl escaped clenched teeth as he stepped towards Ford and jabbed a finger at his chest. “I said I was sorry, alright? You think I want you here; you think I want to see you and Fiddleford being hurt for my dumb mistakes? That I wanted you to even find about about my mistakes this way?”

Ford threw his hands in the air. “I should have known you’d be wrapped up in shit like this, what with how beat up you were when Fiddleford brought you home. I should have known that it would have caused more trouble and that Fiddleford and I would be drug into this!” 

Ford’s voice gradually rose as he spoke until he was practically yelling. Eyes widening, Stan closed the distance between them, covering Ford’s lips with his hand. 

“Shh!” Stan hissed. 

With only Ford’s eyes and eyebrows peaking over Stan’s hair, his eyebrows furrowed with anger. After a few moments, his gaze relaxed somewhat, though he still looked far from happy. Something warm and moist was dragged up the palm of Stan’s hand. 

Gagging, Stan yanked his hand away. “Did you just lick my hand?” Stan asked, wiping his hand off against his pants. Judging by the satisfied look on Ford’s face, it was feasible that he did. 

Stan sighed, purposefully keeping his voice low, “I get it; you have every right to be pissed at me. You can lay into me all you want after this is over, but right now, we have to work as a team!” Stan’s gaze turned to Fiddleford’s, “We all do. We have to have each other’s backs if we want to get out of this. Can you do that?”

Fiddleford nodded instantly, offering a timid smile. Stan turned to Ford who nodded once. His shoulders finally relaxed and he at least had the decency to look guilty. 

“Keep close to me and keep your eyes peeled.” He instructed. He turned his back to them, motioning for them to follow as he treaded closer to the door. 

Pressing close to the wall, his eyes flickered back to see Fiddleford and Ford do the same. He pressed his ears quietly to the door, listening for any voices or noise. Satisfied that he heard nothing he reached for the door knob. 

Weapon raised, he slowly cracked the door open. The door squelched and Stan halted his movements with a wince. Listening for a moment, he heard no movementl and opened the door just enough for him to peak outside. Glancing down the empty corridor, he was satisfied to not see anyone. 

Finally, he opened the door wide enough for them to slip through. Motioning for Ford and Fiddleford to follow, he crept out of the room into the hallway. Sticking close to the shadows, he led them down the hallway. He had no idea where they were in respect to an exit, and thus, no idea where to proceed. 

This was far from the first time he had been in a situation that called for a quick escape in an unfamiliar area. Only back then he only had to worry about himself. Now he had both Ford and Fiddleford relying on him to get them out of here safely. He couldn’t afford to take any risks, not when their well being depended on him. 

His eyes quickly scanned their surroundings. He knew what to look for but considering it was the middle of the night and that there were no lights on, it was hard to make out much. 

Luckily, they could at least use the darkness to their advantage. They might not have the knowledge of where to go as Rico’s guys did, but they could at least use the darkness to stay undetected as long as they were smart. 

Coming to a corner, he halted. Ford and Fiddleford did the same, clutching their weapons close to them. Stan glanced around the corner, quick at first. Seeing nothing, he dared a better look to confirm no one was there. 

The coast was clear. 

The trio started down the hall again. Doors lined the side of the corridor, unnerving Stan. Too many doors posed too many potential variables. They had no way of knowing what was behind the door, or if someone would come out. 

As if on cue, a door halfway up the hallway opened towards them. Immediately, the trio froze. A frightened hand gripped the back of Stan’s arm tightly. 

Eyes flickering around for a place to hide, Stan realized they were going to have to take a risk. Taking the handle of the closest door, Stan pulled Ford and Fiddleford into the room and shut the door behind them. Taking a quick peak to check that the room they were in was empty, he pressed his ear to the door. 

“A-are they coming?” Fiddleford stammered. Stan glanced back at him. The poor guy was clinging to Ford’s arm and his one leg was twitching up a storm. How hadn’t he noticed Fiddleford was such a nervous guy before? 

“Shh!” He hissed as he pressed his ear to the door again. 

The men were drawing closer and speaking in Spanish. Luckily, he’d learned Spanish shortly after he’d gotten out of jail the last time. 

“Sí, Rico está abajo con Pines y esos otros dos en este momento.” The one man said as they approached. 

“Hombre, no los envidio. Nunca antes había visto a Rico tan enojado.” The other replied with a short laugh. 

“Tampoco yo ... quiero ver lo que está haciendo con ellos?” 

“Por supuesto. Vamos a tomar un bocadillo de la sala de descanso primero.” 

“Buena idea. Tal vez Ronaldo nos dejó unas palomitas.” 

The pair chuckled and the rest of their conversation faded away as they proceeded down the hall, presumably around the corner. 

“They’re gone.” Stan said, keeping his voice low just in case. Or rather, as quiet as his voice could be. A voice like his wasn’t exactly subtle. 

“Where are we going?” Ford asked, “Do you have any idea where you’re going?” 

Stan snorted, “No.” 

“Then how do we know we’re going the right way?” Fiddleford asked. 

“Deduction, my dear Watson.” Stan smirked. Fiddleford cocked an eyebrow at him. It wasn’t much but it was close to the Fiddleford he remembered so Stan considered it a win, even if Ford did glare at him. 

“No, you just keep going until either you find a way out, or find clues to indicate where that might be.” Stan explained. 

“Or until someone finds us first and beats the shit out of us.” Ford muttered.

Stan shrugged, “Gotta learn to take some risks every once and awhile, Sixer.”

“I take plenty of risks!” Ford bit back indignantly. 

“I’m not just talking about buyin’ a lottery ticket, or not lookin’ when you cross the street. No one knows we’re here so we can’t wait around for someone else to get us out of here.” 

Fiddleford audibly gulped. His leg was starting to jitter again. 

Stan closed the distance between them and put a hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder. Fearful blue eyes looked at him, obviously clinging to whatever hope Stan might have to offer him. 

“We’re going to be fine though, Fiddleford. You got me out of a rough patch and now it’s about time I did the same.” The hand curled around his thin shoulder squeezed reassuringly. 

Slowly, the corners of Fiddleford’s lips, curled into a timid smile. Stan almost forgot they were in the middle of an abandoned warehouse with men after them as he stared into Fiddleford’s eyes. 

“Ahem,” Right, Ford was still here. From the sound of it, he was growing impatient. 

“Right!” Stan said, tearing his eyes away from Fiddleford. “You two ready to head back out?” 

Ford nodded, and after a moment's hesitation, Fiddleford also nodded. 

“Good, now stay close.” Stan instructed, turning his back to them as he went to the door.

Opening the door a crack, he peeked his head through. The hallway was empty once again. Motioning for the Fords to follow him he widened the gap of the door and squeezed through. Eyes flickering at the numerous other doors lining the hallway, he hurried along until he came to another corner. 

He tilted his head around the corner and nearly swore as he saw the figures of several men striding towards them. 

“¡Oye! ¿Quién está ahí?” One of them shouted towards them. Shit. Shit shit shit! 

Turning to Ford and Fiddleford with wide eyes, he tried to shuffle them back into the empty room before they were spotted. Unfortunately, the room was too far away, and before they were even halfway down the hall, the men rounded the corner. 

“Mierda, se escaparon!” The one man cursed. 

“¡Oye! ¡Detener!” Another yelled. 

“Shit! Run!” Stan yelled, giving Ford and Fiddleford a push forward as the three took off sprinting. Behind them, the men’s footsteps pounded behind them. 

They needed to find a way out fast. Time was running out and they were out of options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other words, I've started a new fic since all the chapters for this fic is written. Check it out if you're interested :)


	17. Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; violence, negative views of sex work (brief), sad Stan Pines

_I don't know if this all will end_  
_I don't know who to call my friends_  
_I don't know how to choose my sins_  
_I don't know how much more I can bend_  
_I don't know if these plans will take_  
_I don't know if it's all just a waste_  
_I don't know if our hearts will break_  
_I just know that we're here_  
_And that's enough for today_

Stan’s heart hammered in his chest. Blood was pulsing in his ears with each heavy thump of his heart. 

The footsteps behind him was drawing closer by the second. It was only a matter of time before the men behind them caught up to them. 

Stan didn’t dare turn around to see how close they were. Instead, his eyes scanned the hallway, looking for a possible escape. 

A hand gripped his long hair and yanked sharply. He stumbled back with a yelp. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Fiddleford and Ford falter. 

“Go!” He yelled to them. Raising the wooden plank still clenched tightly in his hand, he swung at the closest person to him. The man gripping his hair yelled and his grip on Stan’s hair released. Stan’s eyes darted to the other men close behind him, swinging again. There’s a dull ‘whump’ as the wood strikes one of the other men, and at this point, they’ve smartened up enough to back up out of the way of Stan’s reach. 

Not wasting any time, Stan whipped around and gave Ford and Fiddleford another shove forward as he took off running again. 

With a few seconds lead on the men, Stan knew they had some extra time, but not by much. The hallway in front of them branched off into four different hallways. 

“Go right!” Stan shouted ahead to Ford who was in the lead. They rounded the hallway which was thankfully empty except for some clutter on the side. 

Running past an empty barrel, Stan yanked it to the side. One of the men who had been gaining on him again grunted as he came to an abrupt halt as the barrel fell into his path. Stan still refused to turn around and watch, knowing the man would just simply move around it and take off running again. 

Weaving down the hallway, Stan overturned as much as he could into their paths. The noise would definitely attract any other people if they were around, but Stan would deal with that later. A growl of frustration further behind him tugged a satisfied smirk to his lips. 

The hallway curved again. Ford sprinted ahead, now several lengths in front of Stan. Fiddleford rounded the corner a few moments later. His legs wobbled and he nearly slipped but quickly righted himself. 

Pumping his legs faster, Stan closed the distance between them and pushed a steadying hand to Fiddleford’s back, propelling him the rest of the way through the turn. 

Fiddleford let out a yelp at his touch and whipped around. His wide, fearful eyes widened to see Stanley instead of some of the men chasing him. 

“Don’t turn around!” Stan panted out, his sides burning from running for so long. Even with the training he’d been doing for the boxing tournament, he was still easily winded. 

Fiddleford nodded and charged on ahead. Ahead of them, the hallway came to an end, with a door blocking them from whatever was ahead. Ford was quickly approaching it and Stan prayed that there would be no one in that room. Better yet, that it would lead them to a way out. 

The men were rounding the corner now and quickly picked up speed seeing as there was nothing in the hallway for Stan to throw into their path. 

Pushing past the exhaustion and the burning in his legs, Stan willed himself to go faster. Ford was reaching the door now, and luckily the time that he’d have to take to open the door would give Stan some time to catch up. 

As Ford wrenched the door open, Stan realized that one of the things he had prayed for was true. 

Opposite of the doorway, maybe 100 or so feet ahead was the door out. Unfortunately, blocking them from the door was several more of Rico’s men. 

Hearing the door creak, their heads swiveled to look at them. Seeing that Rico’s prisoners had escaped, they all turned to face them. 

The men behind were quickly catching up and with dread, Stan realized they were surrounded. With the exit so close, it seemed like they were so close yet so far from escaping. 

Stan and Fiddleford finally caught up with Ford. The trio clustered close together, close enough that Stan would feel how much Fiddleford was trembling. 

“Easy.” He murmured quietly. Finally glancing behind them, he saw the men that had been chasing them slowed to a stop as they too realized the trio was surrounded. 

“We’re gonna have to fight our way out of this. Remember what I said earlier; it’s them or us now.” Slowly the men closed in on them, a few of them chuckling darkly. 

“Look who we have here boys!” One of them yelled to the others. 

“Pines is back and brought some of his friends. How cute.” Another cooed. Stan gripped his weapon with both hands, eyes flickering quickly to the men, just waiting for the first sign of movement. 

“First chance you get to run, you take it and don’t look back.” Stan whispered to the Fords. “Only one of us needs to get the police for this all to be over.” 

“What’s wrong, Pines? You look a little tense.” Shit. Stan remembered some of these guys, and they obviously remembered him. They had been working with Rico when he had. He’d probably dicked them over too. At the least, he hadn’t exactly made any friends in his time with Rico, even before jail. 

“Rico tells us you’re a whore now. I knew that mouth was good for somethin’ other than bitchin’.” There was a chorus of laughter after that. Despite his best efforts, Stan could feel his face heating up. 

He was starting to get real sick and tired of people calling him a whore. 

“You looking to pay for my services? I can tell ya now that you can’t afford me.” Stan retorted back with a smirk, “All of the money in the world isn’t enough to make it worth it for me to suck your filthy chode.”

Behind him, Fiddleford snorted. 

“You’re gonna pay for that Pines!” The one growled at him. Stan rolled his eyes. 

“You guys spend too much time around Rico. Everything you say is so cliche.” Stan retorted. 

The men growled furiously. All it took was for one of them to launch himself at the trio for all hell to break loose. Trying to keep Ford and Fiddleford away from most of the fight, Stan threw himself between them and their attackers. He grunted as the first punch landed on his already sore and battered body. 

Stan pulled his fist back and cracked it against the man’s jaw. As he stumbled back, Stan readied the wooden plank still gripped tightly in his hands and swung. It crashed against the side of the man's head, throwing him to the ground with the force. 

At his side, Fiddleford drew a sharp gasp. Stan tried not to think about what he must possibly be thinking about him in that moment. He never wanted for either of them to see this side of him. Especially not now considering how terrified Fiddleford was. 

He never wanted Fiddleford to be scared of him. 

By now, Ford was fighting back the men coming from the opposite side. Apparently those boxing lessons hadn’t been for nothing. Even after all of these years, Ford still had near perfect form. 

Pressing back against them, he and Ford sandwiched Fiddleford between them, trying to shield him from as much of the fighting as they could. The engineer was still trembling, if not more violently this time. Stan could only hope and pray that Fiddleford could defend himself when it came down to it. He and Ford couldn’t fight off this many at once for long. 

Two more men flanked after Stan fell the first. Stan lunged out at the one, but wasn’t able to block as the other one swung at his head. 

This fight was far from the boxing matches he had competed it. There was no gloves to pad the blows. Bare knuckles (was that bastard wearing a ring?) tore cuts into Stan’s skin. There was no rules either. There would be no referee there to break up the fight if there was a blow to the back of the head or to a kidney or the likes. 

Stan didn’t know if these guys would kill them or simply incapacitate them to return them to Rico, and he didn’t care to find out. Either way, it was a fight for their lives. 

Stan’s face whipped to the side from the force of the blow. His head, already battered from the night just a few hours before (God that felt so long ago), was throbbing. Pushing through, Stan threw a punch at his attacker. 

Behind him, Ford grunted as his attackers landed blows on him. The three guys that had been chasing them were on him. They were like birds picking on prey, one would distract Ford whilst another would throw a punch at him. Gripping Fiddleford’s shoulder and maneuvering him to keep him in the middle as he moved, he turned to help Ford fight off the three attackers. 

Swinging his plank of wood, he struck the man on the side of the head again. Once more, the man collapsed from the blow. From the force of Stan’s blow, the wood splintered apart and crumbled in his hands. 

He threw it aside with a frustrated growl. At least with two men out, the odds were better in their favor. 

A hand grabbed his hair from behind and yanked him back. Losing his footing, he tumbled onto the hard concrete. Alarms went off in his head as his ass hit the ground. Down here he was vulnerable and his brain screamed at him to get to his feet. 

His feet scrambled to get underneath him but a harsh kick to his ribs left him sprawled on his back with the wind knocked out of him. 

The two men closed in on him, feet kicking at his exposed body mercilessly. He bit his lips hard to keep himself from crying outs but one kick to his face wrenched a groan of pain from his split lips. 

Feebly, he tried to cover his face with his hands and curl up to protect his middle but to little avail. His body felt like it was on fire and he was sure that he had at least a few bruised, if not cracked, ribs. 

A surprised yell from one of his attackers cut through Stan’s overwhelmed thoughts. Pulling his hands away from his eyes, his jaw dropped. 

One of his attackers was still yelling as Fiddleford clung to his back, yanking at his hair with a look that Stan had never seen in the thinner man’s eyes. If Stan didn’t know him, he’d be scared shitless from the wild, animal like rage he saw. 

Seeing his comrade under attack, Stan’s other assailant abandoned Stan in favor of directing his attention to Fiddleford. Before he could reach him, Stan kicked a foot out. The man tripped and collapsed to the ground. Before he could get up, Stan was scrambling to his feet, adrenaline pulling through his veins. 

He kicked at the man’s face and head. His eyesight went red and his movements didn’t halt even as the man pathetically curled into a ball to escape the wrath of Stan’s feet. 

Something crashed hard into his side, effectively breaking through his red vision as he lost his balance and skid to the ground in a heap with someone on top of him. 

Fists flailing at the person which he now recognized was one of Ford’s attackers, he noticed someone else approaching. 

“Get him off of me!” The man Fiddleford was clinging to and attacking wailed. The man previously approaching him faltered for a moment before changing direction towards Fiddleford instead. 

A loud, animal like growl rumbled past Stan’s throat as he thrashed at the person on top of him. 

The person on Stan grunted under the impact of Stan’s fists and from the corner of his eyes, Stan could see the third guy wavering, unsure who needed more help. 

Luckily for Stan, Ford was finally jumping into the fray, though still looking obviously shocked by Fiddleford’s sudden action. 

“Ford!” He yelled, easily flipping his disoriented attacker over so Stan was straddling him. “Take Fiddleford and get out!” 

Ford’s eyes widened in shock. Stan silently pleaded with him to listen to him. All he cared about was that his brother and best friend got out as soon as possible. There were only three guys left; Stan could handle that until they could get help. 

After a nerve wracking moment, Ford pressed his lips into a thin line and jerked out a nod. He gripped the back of Fiddleford’s jacket and yanked him off of the man. 

Without pausing to wait, Ford took off running towards the door with a hand still gripped on Fiddleford’s hood. Fiddleford stumbled after him, casing a shocked, heartbroken expression at Stan as he realized Stan wasn’t following along. Stan nodded once at him and again started wailing on the man pinned under him, yelling loudly to attract the attention of the other two. 

Seeing the other two running off, they hesitated. 

“Rico only needs Pines. Those two were just a bonus.” The one hissed. With a curt nod from the other, they rounded on Stan. 

One punch hits Stan on the side of the face, knocking him off the struggling man. He barely has a moment to recover until the other is on him. 

If he thought he hurt before, it was nothing compared to now. On the bright side, at least he knew Ford and Fiddleford were safe. They’d get help so all Stan had to do now was just hold out for the police to show up. 

Of course, Stan Pines was never one to simply give up or give in either. He’d fight back until he was physically unable to. 

Kicking a foot out, he hit one guys knee, sending him sprawling on his ass. A harsh kick to his ribs had him sucking in a breath, gasping at the pain. 

“You’re dead, Pines.” The man above him growled. A hand gripped his hair, lifting his head up before slamming it into the concrete. 

His vision swam from the impact. Another foot struck his stomach and all he could manage was a weak groan. He tried to strike out at them, to do anything to slow the hits on his body- foot to his chest here, a punch to the face there- but his limbs felt like they were trapped in quicksand. 

Weakly lifting his head, a punch sent it back down. Black dots spotted his vision and was that ringing always there? He wasn’t so sure now. He could barely remember a time he hadn’t been in pain. 

Time seemed to drag by until finally, the distant sounds of sirens closed in. Flashing red and blue lights flickered through the windows on the opposite wall, bathing his attackers as they all froze. 

“Shit!” The one yelled. 

“It’s the cops! I can’t go back to jail!” Another yelled. 

“Let's get out of here!” 

The three scrambled to move but before they could get far, Stan kicked out a leg, tripping two of them. The tangle of their two limbs brought down the third just as the police burst through the door. 

“Police! Put your hands up!” Several men in uniform filtered into the warehouse with guns drawn. Stan had never been happier in his life to see police. 

As a handful of cops start hoisting the men off of Stan, he weakly tried to struggle to his feet. 

He’s barely up when there’s a weight pushing him down again. With a gasp, he collapsed. 

“Hey!” He rasps indignantly as his hands are forced behind his back. “What’s the big idea here?”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” The person behind him, apparently a cop, said. 

“What? Why are you arresting me? I didn’t do anything this time!” Stan retorted in shock. 

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” He was suddenly hoisted to his feet. 

He groaned at the sudden movement. “You can’t arrest me! For once I’m actually innocent!” 

“That’s what they all say.” The cop muttered blandly in his ear. With a shove that caused pain to flare in his ribs, Stan was forced forward towards the door. 

Several police cars were parked a few feet away. Stan was being guided towards one, but a few yards away, he could make out Ford and Fiddleford standing beside some cops. 

Mouth dropping in shock, Stan’s eyes were glued to them as they watched him be led towards one of the cop cars in handcuffs. They were too far away to see their expression but Stan didn’t need to see to know what they must be thinking right now. 

It wasn’t like he could blame them. Not really. They’d both gotten hurt because of him. They’d both been dragged into this mess because of a stupid mistake that he should have known would catch up to him someday. 

Even worse, they both knew things about him that he hadn’t wanted them to find out. In Ford’s case, he had hoped he’d get a chance to tell him once things had calmed down and their relationship was more stable. For Fiddleford, he had never wanted him to see such a violent side of him. 

He couldn’t blame them for turning him in, and he had known all along it would happen eventually, but that didn’t make it hurt even less. 

Shoulders slumping, he allowed himself to be shoved into the cop car. If one thing went well that night, it was that they didn’t put any of Rico’s guys in the same car with him. 

A few minutes went by and eventually Rico was led out in handcuffs. Apparently the other men had fled at the sound of the sirens and he overheard one of the other cops talking about searching the area for them. 

As Rico was led out, his gaze locked into Stan’s with a burning intensity. Again, he was lucky that Rico was shoved into another car but Stan knew it’d be foolish to hope they’d end up in different prisons. One way or another, Stan and Rico would meet again and this time, it wasn’t like Stan would have any hope to cling to. 

Ford and Fiddleford both hated him. There would be no hope for reconciliation after this. He had lost his brother all those years ago, and the hope of one day getting him back had been the one thing that always kept him going. Now he had lost more than just that. He’d lost his twin for good with no hope of ever getting him back. 

He’d also lost the best, if not the first real friend he’d ever had. He’d lost the person who had opened his heart and his home to him, who had shown him endless patience and compassion, who had shared a bed and even a wonderful moment on a snowy hilltop with him. 

There was no hope for getting either of those things back, and for the first time in his life, Stan found that he had no reason or will to fight back anymore. 

For the first time in his life, Stan Pines gave up.


	18. Better Days

_I know right now it feels like hell_  
_And nothing's going all that well_  
_When it's always raining in your head_  
_And it's hard to see beyond your bed_  
_Just remind yourself_  
_It's probably gonna take some time_  
_But there are better days to find_

A few hours prior (God how late was it? Stan could barely keep his eyes open), Stan had been driven to the police station and given a quick medical check. They had confirmed what he had already guessed; a few bruised and cracked ribs (nothing they could really do for that), a broken nose (Stan fixed that himself, to the shock of the examiner), dislocated thumbs, some rather nasty cuts and bruises (which they’d cleaned and bandaged for him), and a concussion (he shouldn’t sleep just yet and should take it easy). 

He’d been waiting in the same interrogation room for what felt like hours. The bag of ice they’d given him had long since melted and the subsequent bag of water rested in front of him on the table. Despite the examiners orders, he had half a mind to sleep. He was exhausted, bruised and in pain. The physical pain he felt, which was still great, felt like a paper cut compared to the internal turmoil he was dealing with. 

He almost wouldn’t mind falling asleep and never waking up. That’d be preferable to having to return to life in his car after knowing what it was like to live with people that actually cared about him again. It’d be even worse now considering most of his important belongings were still in Ford and Fiddleford’s apartment. 

There was no way in hell he would show his face there just to pick up his stuff. He’d find a way to manage without it and let them either throw out or donate what he’d left behind. 

Dropping his head to the desk with a wince, he barely refrained from groaning. Apart from that, he had no plan. The idea of having to go back to his car and drive away from this town that had so quickly become a home to him made his heart ache more than the painful pounding of his head. 

He hadn’t thought of any place as his home in years. Sure, his car was home, but he was a wanderer, a grifter. He rarely stayed in one place for more than a few weeks, maybe a few months if business was good.  
,  
This small college town had quickly become a home to him. While he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay long, that he’d inevitably overstay his welcome it didn’t mean it’d hurt any less to lose the place he’d call home for the second time. 

He deserved this, he reminded himself. No matter what he did, he’d always mess up. For a brief moment, he had been on top of the world with everything he could have ever wanted and then some; a home, his brother, a friend, and a plan. He’d even won the boxing tournament and could have gotten a job at the gym, could have pulled his own weight. 

It was all gone now. 

His dreams had been turned into dust in a matter of hours and in its wake, Stan was left a hollow husk of his old self. 

Maybe it’d be better if they just threw him in jail. He wouldn’t have to worry about where to go next, what to do next. He’d at least have three meals a day and a place to sleep. 

He didn’t know what they had arrested him for but it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t last long in jail, not after pissing Rico off this much. 

In the past, he might have been disturbed with how calmly he was thinking about dying. He’d always been one to fight back no matter how tough his situation got. But he had lost the will to fight anymore. He was tired and beaten down and what was the point anymore?

Get a million dollars? Ford hated him and no amount of money would change that. It wasn’t like he could even go home at that point. His father knew all along that Stan would never succeed in getting that kind of money. He’d just said that to get rid of the son he’d never wanted nor asked for. 

He had been chasing an impossible dream for years. He’d known it was impossible too, but that stubborn part of him had clung to that hope like a drowning man at sea. He’d needed something to believe in or work for to keep himself going. 

Without that dream, he saw no reason to keep going. 

The door opened and Stan didn’t bother to lift his head from the desk. Lazily flicking his eyes towards the person who entered he was surprised to see an officer with a set of keys in hand. 

“You’re free to go.” 

They unlocked the handcuffs around Stan’s hand and looked to Stan who had yet to reply. 

“Couple of guys explained everything. Turns out we had the wrong guy.” He supplied, probably noticing the shocked and confused expression on Stan’s face. 

Great, so there goes the prison idea. 

It was probably the first time in his life he’d been disappointed that he was not going to jail. 

Biting back a sigh, Stan got to his feet. He wasn’t able to help the grunt of effort just that simple action took. At least even his car seat would feel like heaven after all this, even if he would wake up with a stiff back and a crick in his neck. 

The cop led him out of the room and down the hall to the front doors. He kept his gaze to his shoes, lips creased in a frown. 

His car was going to be cold. It would be stupid to waste the gas to keep it running all night. At least he could warm up a bit when he drove out of town to wherever he would decide to stay for the night (he doubted he’d make it far. He could barely keep his eyes open). 

The hallway opened up to the front room of the police station. From the corner of his eye, he saw two figures stand up from the couple of chairs against the wall. 

Footsteps hurried towards him.

“Stan!”

“Stanley!”

He barely had the time to register the footsteps as two familiar voices called his name. 

In a shocked stupor, he finally looked up from his feet to see Ford and Fiddleford rushing towards him. Fiddleford reached him first, nearly tackling Stan as he threw his arms around him in a hug (which didn’t really say a lot considering how unsteady Stan’s balance was). 

He was still processing Fiddleford’s hug when Ford joined it, his arms enveloping the two of them. 

“Oh thank God you’re ok!” Fiddleford exclaimed breathlessly. His tiny frame was trembling again and Stan finally broke out of his shocked trance to wrap an arm around Fiddleford. 

Words felt heavy on his tongue. He didn’t even know where to start. 

“You shouldn’t have tried to fight all of them off yourself, you knucklehead!” Ford gently chided, his face resting on Stan’s shoulder. 

What was odd was there was no bite to Ford’s words. In fact, there was only relief. 

He’d been so sure that they’d hate him after everything that had happened. The gears in his brain were slowly chugging as he tried to comprehend everything. He hadn’t even noticed that Fiddleford was squeezing his broken ribs too tightly until he opened his mouth to speak and all that came out was a gasp. 

“Oh dear!” Fiddleford sharply inhaled. The two quickly stepped back from Stan, eyes running up and down him in search of injuries. Stan hadn’t even had a chance to see how he looked yet but judging from the tears welling in Fiddleford’s eyes, it was rough. 

Luckily they didn’t look too bad. Fiddleford looked the best out of the Ford’s since he’d been shielded from most of the attacks. Only the edges of a bandage peaked out from his shirt collar, presumably from where he’d been burned. 

Ford on the other hand had a couple of cuts on his cheek, as well as a black eye. The finger Rico had broken was stabilized in a splint. 

“Stanford, why isn’t he talking?” Fiddleford asked, fear bleeding into his voice. Stan’s eyes flickered to him as he spoke, trying to make sense out of the concern in the southern man’s eyes. 

“Oh,” Ford responded, “I think we should sit him down before we go home.”

Fiddleford nodded and took Stan’s hand in his, gently tugging him towards the chairs. Stan didn’t need to be told twice. He sank down into the chair, relieved to sit down again. Fiddleford and Ford sat down on either side of him, Fiddleford’s hand still in his and Ford anxiously fiddled with his own hands, much as he used to when they were a kid and he was nervous. 

“Are you ok, Stan? We’re sorry it took so long to explain to them that you were innocent. We would have gone back if they had allowed it.” Fiddleford replied earnestly. 

Stan blinked at him in shock, wetting his dry, cracked lips as he finally found his words. 

“You’re sorry?” He asked, wincing at how much different his voice sounded from its usual rasp. “It’s my fault you two are here in the first place, but you’re sorry?” 

Fiddleford blinked at him, his eyebrows furrowed as they did when he was trying to make sense out of something he was reading in his textbook. 

“Stanley, this wasn’t your fault.” Fiddleford’s voice dropped low as he squeezed Stan’s hand. 

Beside him, Ford sighed, “Fiddleford’s right. This wasn’t your fault.” Ok, this had to be a dream. Stan could make sense of Fiddleford forgiving him. Even after everything, Fiddleford had looked so heartbroken as Ford pulled him out of the warehouse. But Ford? Ford hadn’t been happy with him from the start, and he had good reason to be upset with him. 

“Even you must known that taking their money hadn’t been your best idea, but that doesn’t mean this is your fault. The only person at fault for this is Rico.” Ford added. 

Stan’s jaw dropped, his mind going blank. 

“Maybe it’d be a good idea to go home and have this talk?” Fiddleford suggested quietly. 

Ford nodded with a thoughtful hum, “Yes, I must say, I’m dying to go home after all of this.” 

“Home.” Stan choked out. Did he still even have a home to go back to? 

Fiddleford squeezed Stan’s hand again, but his grip didn’t relent. 

“Yes, home. You’d like to go home wouldn’t you?” Fiddleford asked. 

Stan looked between the two of them, noticing that they were both watching him with a hint of apprehension. 

“Do you want me to come home with you?” He asked, dropping his gaze to his hands. He was too afraid to see their reactions. 

“What? Of course we do, Stanley.” Ford replied, leaning closer to Stan. A six fingered hand rested on his shoulder, grounding him. 

“Why wouldn’t we?” Fiddleford asked. 

Stan’s hands clenched. The hand holding his squeezed back. 

“I just— I thought you two wouldn’t want anything to do with me after this.” Stan replied quietly. 

“We already told ya, Stanley, none of this was your fault.” Fiddleford said, sadness lacing into his voice. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Stan wasn’t even going to address how wrong that statement was quite yet, “But now you guys know the kind of life I lived, the kind that still follows me. Aren’t ya worried that somethin’ like this’ll happen again?”

“Stan, I am a bit— uh— shocked, to say the least with what I found out today. I’m not going to pretend I’m happy about it but I think I’m starting to get it now. If anything like this happens again, we won’t be blind sided. We’re going to deal with it together because that’s what family does.” 

Ford’s hand squeezed his shoulder and as Stan looked to Ford, he was floored by the sincerity in his gaze. 

“It’s what we should have done all those years ago, and I don’t want to make the same mistake and lose my brother again.” Ford’s voice wavered as he continued. Stan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Ford was scared to lose him? Not only did he want Stan to come home with them but he didn’t care that Stan’s past could follow him again? 

It was more than he could ever hope for. 

Sniffling, Stan wiped his eyes. 

“Damn allergies.” He mumbled under his breath. 

Ford snorted, “I love you too, you knucklehead.” 

I love you. When was the last time he or Ford had ever said that to each other. They had been so close before that they hadn’t even thought twice when they said it. Four years later and maybe they were closer to getting back what they had then before this whole mess. 

Grinning, Stan wrapped his arms around Ford and Fiddleford. “I love you guys. I couldn’t ask for a better family.” 

A bubbling laugh from Fiddleford was like music to his ears. The engineer wrapped an arm around Stan and after a moment to register what was happening, Ford did the same. 

“Let's get you home, you big sap.” Ford teased. 

After collecting their possessions that the police has found, they called a cab from the station to drive them home. The ride home was comfortably quiet. The exhaustion from the night was finally catching up to them. 

When their apartment building finally came into view, it was a sight that Stan wouldn’t forget. 

He was home. Really and truly home. If this hadn’t broken the little family they had built together, Stan doubted anything would. He could finally relax and let himself take root with them. 

Paying the taxi driver with the money from his winnings, they approached the front door to the apartment building. Warm air greeted them home and as if on cue, all three of them sighed in relief. 

Ford unlocked the door to their apartment and let them in. It’s dark, but a flip of a switch illuminated their small living space. Stan smiled softly in appreciation. 

As they stepped inside, Ford reached out and touched Stan’s arm. 

“I know we’re all tired and want to go to bed but I really think we should finish talking this out.” Ford said, fiddling with his hands, “Tomorrow is a day for celebration, and I don’t want us to just shove everything under the rug again. We should finally deal with all this as we should have initially dealt with it.” 

Apprehension bubbled in Stan’s gut but he pushed it aside. Ford had a point and he’d much rather get it out of the way sooner rather than later. 

“Ok, let’s sit down then.” Stan said. The three of them all dumped their bags along the wall by the door and settled on the couch together. Stan fidgeted nervously in his seat. He knew what he’d have to talk about, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. 

Ford let out a long sigh, “I meant what I said at the station, I get it.” He began. Stan relaxed minutely. “You did what you had to do to survive, and I respect that.”

Stan’s jaw dropped. Did Ford really just say what he thought he did?

“I am still cross with you though. About you telling Fiddleford first, about how you didn’t think that you could call me before it came to that, about how dangerous it is. Have you been tested, Stanley?”

Face burning, Stan hunched his shoulders in on himself, “I get tested when I can but it’s expensive and I can’t afford to always do it.”

Ford nodded, “Ok so let’s do that. I don’t want you not being treated for something you might have because you don’t know about it or can’t afford it.” 

Stan nodded and spoke up, “I swear, I was goin’ to tell you. I just— I didn’t want to do it when things were so fragile between us. Though if I’m honest, I wouldn’t want you to know if it were up to me. It was Fiddleford that suggested that I should come clean to you.”

In his periphery, he saw Fiddleford nod his head in confirmation. 

“I understand that, Stanley. It’s just— we used to know everything about each other. I know that’s a lot to ask for considering the years we’ve been apart, but I miss that.” Ford fiddled with his hands. For the first time, Stan realized how hard this must be for his brother as well. 

Neither of them were any good at talking with each other, let alone allow themselves to be vulnerable. For Ford to admit something so personal must have been difficult. 

Stan took a deep breath, “What do you want to know?” 

Stan could see the gears turning in Ford’s head as he waited for an answer. It took a few moments before he finally responded, “Everything. I want to know what you were up to after Pops kicked you out.” 

Stan heaved a sigh. The conversation with Fiddleford had been hard enough, but to tell Stanford was harder. Still, he owed him that much and he had said he wanted to come clean. 

So he told Stanford everything. He told him about his plan to get a million dollars so he could come home. He told him about searching the beach for treasure and how that led him to coming up with different shitty products to sell to people. He told him about how he had been banned from multiple states, about how eventually he hit a dead end and started getting in with shadier people. He told him about Rico, and Columbia and jail. 

Much of that, Ford had already heard from Rico, but Stan told them again in more detail.

He told them about the shitty things he’d done, about how he’d been beaten, burned, practically tortured if a deal went wrong. He told them about how when things got real bad, he wouldn’t eat for days at a time and for a few occasions in the winter, almost froze to death in his car. 

Finally, he told them about how he first got into selling himself and how it seemed almost too easy. One night spent in a dirty bathroom stall would get him enough money to feed himself. Most of the time, he didn’t have to worry about going hungry or having a place to stay. Selling himself seemed hardly worth blinking an eye for when it offered him so much. 

As he told them his story, he didn’t leave anything out. He told them the truth, no matter how ugly the truth was. By the time he finished, Fiddleford had a solemn expression on his face and Ford looked downright horrified. 

Wincing away from Ford’s expression, Stan swallowed thickly. This was why he had never wanted to tell Ford. He hadn’t wanted to deal with the pity or anger. 

“Oh Stanley,” Ford’s voice was quiet and low, making Stan hunch in more on himself as if he could disappear into the couch. “I’m— I’m so sorry. I wish you would have called me for help.”

Stan’s fists clenched. “And said what? That Pops was right about me? That I was nothing but a failure and needed your help after I already ruined your project?” Stan didn’t mean to get angry, but anger was a hell of a lot easier than dealing with the embarrassment. 

“I hate to tell ya, but I did try, remember? After Filbrick kicked me out, I looked to you to stick up for me, to not just stand aside when he tossed me to the streets but you closed the curtains on me!” 

Stan expected anger from Ford. He was practically yelling by this point and he knew Ford would get defensive. Instead, Ford just hung his head. 

“You’re right,” he muttered miserably, “I just stood by and let him throw you out. I can’t even say I would have listened to you even if you had called me for help. I’d like to say now that I would have, but I had clung to that anger and resentment to keep myself from missing you that I doubt I would have actually listened.” 

Ford heaved a sigh, looking up to Stan to meet his gaze, “I’m sorry, Stan.” 

Stan’s mouth gaped like a fish out of water. 

Ford laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Is it really that surprising to you that I’m sorry?”

Stan shook his head, “No! Well, I guess kind of.” 

“I guess I’m sorry for that too.” Ford sighed sadly, rubbing his arm, “I’ve just been telling myself that you’ve been fine all these years just to make myself feel better about turning my back on you like that. Thinking that you weren’t fine would have made me doubt myself and my part in why you got kicked out. I guess it was easier to hang onto that anger instead of dealing with the guilt or the worry.” 

Stan laughed, “Heh, I get that, Sixer.” More than anything did he understand that. Growing up, he’d been labeled as a “problem child” with “anger issues”. Anger was easier than wallowing in one’s misery. 

“I’m at fault too though. I’ve told you before, but I mean it; I didn’t mean to break your project. I know how much that meant to you, and I should have told you about what happened that night or at least acted sorry for what I did. Maybe then you would have been able to go to your dream school.” Stan said. 

“Maybe so,” Ford said thoughtfully, “But then I wouldn’t have met Fiddleford.” He glanced past Stan with a small smile. Fiddleford smiled timidly at Ford. 

“Heh, I guess not. How would you have even survived without him?” Stan teased, elbowing Fiddleford amiably. 

The engineer laughed, finally looking like the Fiddleford Stan knew and loved. 

“You laugh, but I doubt I would have been able to stay sane without him.” Ford chuckled. 

“Aw shucks. You would have been just fine.” Fiddleford waved at him. 

“I definitely wouldn’t have been,” Stan added, “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be living out of my car. Who knows if Ford and I would have ever made up, but thanks to you, I not only have my brother back, but I have a home and a friend.” 

Fiddleford leaned his head on Stan’s shoulder, “I don’t want to think about that. I can’t imagine not knowing you two.” 

Goddamn if that wasn’t the sweetest thing. Stan wiggled his arm behind Fiddleford’s back, holding him close as he planted a kiss shamelessly to his forehead. 

“I owe this all to you, Fiddlestick.” Stan murmured softly. 

Ford nodded, leaning in close to the pair, “I hadn’t even realized what I’ve been missing until you reminded me.”

“Fellas, if you’re tryin’ to make me cry, you’re doing a mighty good job.” Fiddleford sniffled. 

“So are we good?” Stan asked, eyes flickering to Ford. His twin smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

“Yeah, I think we’re good.” 

Stan smiled. He was more than good. Despite everything, he was back on top of the world again. 

“I don’t know about you two, but I’m beat and Ford and I still have a final in the mornin’.” Fiddleford said after a moment, looking almost guilty for breaking up the moment despite it being ungodly late. What time was it anyway?

“Oh shit!” Stan gasped, “I’m sorry guys, I totally forgot! Let’s get you two to bed, huh?” 

“Actually,” Ford said. His voice drew out as he spoke, like there was something else he wanted to say but either didn’t know how or couldn’t. 

“What is it, Sixer?” Stan asked. Fiddleford was looking at him with a look of confusion that matched Stan’s. 

“Well, I know you two have your arrangement and all but—“ Ford trailed off again, fiddling with his hands. 

“Spit it out, Sixer.” Stan laughed. 

“Could we maybe all sleep together tonight. This whole thing kind of has me shaken up a bit and well, you know—“ he was starting to ramble off. Stan decided to put him out of his misery. 

“Do you want me to bring your mattresses out here?” He offered, “We could all sleep out here tonight like a big sleepover. We never did get to have one of those growing up and while we can’t exactly stay up all night gossiping about— I dunno— girls or boys or whatever, but we can at least sleep out here together?” 

Fiddleford sprang away from Stan, “Oh, a sleepover sounds just peachy!” 

Ford cocked an eyebrow, “Really? You guys wouldn’t mind?” 

“Pfft, of course not!” Stan waved his hand nonchalantly, “It’ll be fun. Why don’t you two get the pillows and blankets from your bed and I’ll drag the mattresses out.” 

Ford smiled at Stan and the trio set to work. Fiddleford and Ford collected the pillows and blankets and tossed them to the couch for later and helped Stan lug the mattresses from their bedroom to the living room. It was a tight squeeze and Stan was thankful they didn’t have any downstairs neighbors with the noise they must be making. 

Once the mattresses were finally pushed together and all of the pillows and blankets moved to the new bed, they parted to change into their pjs before reconvening in the living room. 

The trio tucked themselves under the warmth of the covers and snuggled close together. Stan somehow found himself in the middle with Fiddleford and Ford on either side of him. Fiddleford laid down on his side with his arm draped across Stan’s chest while Ford rolled over facing his twin with a hand on his shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, Stan wrapped his arms behind them and held them close. 

He could get used to this. Sleeping in between the two most important people in his life was much better than sleeping in his car by himself. He closed his eyes, trying to commit this to his memory. 

“Goodnight, nerds.” Stan murmured softly. Sleep was creeping across the edges of his subconsciousness already. 

“Goodnight, knucklehead. Goodnight, F.” Ford mumbled beside him. 

“Goodnight, Stanley. Goodnight, Stanford.” Fiddleford sighed happily. 

A chapter of his life was closing, Stan realized. It wasn’t just going to be him on his own anymore. There was no more need for him to go hungry or make stupid “business deals” anymore. He had his brother and best friend by his side, and there was no need to wait for things to go wrong. 

He was quickly succumbing to sleep. On either side, he could already hear Ford and Fiddleford lightly snoring. The last thought that entered his mind before he too fell asleep was that he was finally safe here. The trio was in this together through thick and thin, and for the first time in years, Stan was excited for what the future may bring.


	19. The Ship in Port

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Going on vacation killed my motivation for writing/editing but it’s slowly coming back.  
> Also, I’m going to be attending Otakon this weekend and I’ll be cosplaying a sexy Ford for the rave ;) if by some chance, any of y’all are going, feel free to hit me up! It’d be fun to meet up with some of y’all (if you wanna see sexy Ford, I’ll be posting him after this weekend on my Instagram, cryptidcosplays)  
> Without further adieu, happy reading!

_Then everything danced to a stranger tune_  
_And we found our song and we found our truth_  
_And now that we know it's that we always knew_  
_Farewell to the chains we were born into_

A few hours later, Fiddleford and Ford woke for their last days of finals. As they packed their bags, Stan brewed a cup of coffee and poured it into a travel mug for them to take with them. 

Sleep had done little to rejuvenate them from the previous night. If anything, they were more sore and the bruises they had received were a bit darker. 

However, their spirits couldn’t be any higher. They’d awoken in a tangle of limbs that had required lots of groans in order to pull themselves from the warm cocoon they had made for themselves. 

After their talk last night, Stan felt much freer. He didn’t have to hold his breath for the inevitable. He didn’t need to hold himself back from getting too comfortable. Ford and Fiddleford were sticking with him no matter once. 

Stan could finally relax and let himself enjoy having a home and a family again. 

As the two Fords hurried out the door for their finals, Stan waited a few minutes before pulling on his coat and heading to his car. After filling his tank with gas with money from the tournament, he drove down to the liquor store. 

It wasn’t until he was confronted with aisles upon aisles of booze that he realized he had no idea what kind of alcohol either Fiddleford or Ford liked. Shrugging, he picked up a basket and loaded it with a bit of everything from vodka to whisky to wine to rum. 

He was half tempted to shoplift one of them just for old times sake but decided they’ve had enough trouble for a while. Besides, with how busted up his face looked, the cashier was already watching him warily. After paying for everything, he stuffed the bottles on the passenger side seat of his car. 

Yeesh, if they were going to take Stan’s car to Fiddleford’s house he was going to seriously need to clean out the back seat. It was stuffed with old products, empty Chinese take out containers and other trash. 

Folding himself back into the car, he drove home and carried the bottles inside the apartment. 

By the time Ford and Fiddleford came back home, Stan had set out the bottles on the table and was busy making lunch for them. 

“Hey!” He greeted them loudly. “There’s my two favourite nerds! How’d it go?” 

Ford and Fiddleford simultaneously let out a long groan and unceremoniously dumped their bags down. 

“It went surprisingly well.” Ford reported, looking tired and worn out. 

Stan briefly turned back to the counter where he had brewed a cup of coffee for them, “I don’t know why you sound so surprised. You two have been studying your asses off since I got here.” 

“My, what smells so heavenly?” Fiddleford asked as Stan poured coffee into three mugs. Turning around with two of the mugs in hand, he handed them off to Ford and Fiddleford. The pair eagerly took the mugs and practically guzzled down the coffee.

“I’m making lunch. I hope you like quesadillas; we’re going to need to get some food from the store soon since we’re running low.” Stan replied. He slipped his hands around the warm coffee mug and brought it to his lips. He wasn’t a coffee connoisseur like his twin, but he could appreciate it when he was particularly tired. 

“I hope you two are ready to celebrate!” Stan said. “I didn’t know what kind of alcohol you liked so I tried to get a bit of everything.” 

Ford and Fiddleford both approached the table, examining the bottles Stan had set up. 

“Oh, you got whiskey!” Fiddleford gasped, turning one of the bottles around to look at the label. Stan sputtered on his coffee. 

“You drink whiskey?” He asked, shocked. 

Fiddleford laughed, “Sure do! 

Beside him, Ford nodded to confirm. Stan affectionately shook his head. 

“Never would have guessed that with your tiny frame.” Stan commented as he turned around to pull plates out of the cabinet. 

“Come dig in, nerds.” He teased, setting the plates down on the counter beside the stove. 

The Ford’s rushed around the table and shoveled a quesadilla out onto their plate before sitting down at their usual spot at the table. After they served themselves, Stan helped himself and joined them at the table. 

“So, when are we heading out tomorrow, Fiddlesticks?” Stan asked through a bite of his food. 

Fiddleford’s eyes lit up, “Well, it’s quite a long trip to Tennessee, so we should probably leave early.” 

Stan nodded thoughtfully. “Gotcha. Then I should probably clean out my car by tonight.” 

It was said more to himself than anything. Fiddleford looked up from his plate, “I’ll help ya!”

Stan hummed thoughtfully, “I appreciate the offer but you’ve seen my car. I don’t think you really want to help clean that mess up.” 

“Nonsense! I don’t mind at all!” Fiddleford waved his hand at him. 

“I’ll help too.” Ford said from behind a mouthful of quesadilla. “Why don’t we do that after lunch while it’s still light. Then we can have the whole day to relax.” 

Stan was a bit apprehensive for Ford to see the state of his car but the extra help would mean they could be finished a lot faster. 

“Yeah, let's do that!” Stan agreed. 

—-

After lunch, the trio walked to Stan’s car armed with several trash bags. Stan pulled his keys out as they approached. 

“I can’t believe you’ve had her after all this time.” Ford said looking at the Stanleymobile with a look Stan couldn’t quite make out. 

Stan shrugged as he unlocked the door, “She’s a good car.” He opened the door, wincing as some trash spilled out. “Believe it or not, but I’ve tried to keep up with her. Ya know, just take her to the mechanic when I can afford to. She’s a sturdy car though.” 

He threw out the trash that had fallen and looked to the back seat. Damn, maybe it was good the two of them were helping him, otherwise he’d be out here all afternoon. He unlocked the rest of the doors for the Ford’s. 

“Thanks again for helpin’ me with this.” He said before diving into his backseat. Luckily, the top layer of the car was mostly trash. Once that was disposed of, most of what was left was his inventions. Fiddleford pulled out one of his Stan Co brand pitchforks. 

“This was you?” He asked, shocked. 

“Heh, yeah.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. 

“We have a couple of these on my farm!” Fiddleford laughed. “My Pa got a couple of them at a sale a few years ago.” 

Stan laughed awkwardly. “Sorry to hear that. They all fall apart eventually.” 

Fiddleford scoffed, “Maybe so, but not when I’m around to reinforce them. Last time I was home, my Pa was still usin’ them.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow, “Maybe I’ll save that last one then.” He laughed, “Your Pa can have it and maybe you could show me how you reinforced it?” 

Fiddleford grinned, sticking the pitchfork to the side. “I’d love to! I know my Pa will be very excited for a new tool.” 

Stan quirked an eyebrow. He could only imagine what the McGucket family was like. 

Stan lugged one of the old vacuums he used to sell, lugging it towards one of the apartments dumpsters by the side of the parking lot. 

“You’re not throwing that out are you?” Fiddleford called to him. 

“Yeah, I am. It’s junk.” Stan called back. 

“Don’t do that!” Fiddleford rushed over to Stan, putting a hand over the vacuum. “These are your inventions! You can’t just throw them away!”

“I can if they’re junk.” Stan replied. 

“Well— we don’t have a vacuum for the apartment. What if we kept your inventions and we worked on them together?”

“You really think you can fix up this old piece of junk?” Stan asked skeptically. There was only confidence in Fiddleford’s expression as he nodded. Stan shrugged. 

“Ok, if you really want it.” Stan replied. The rest of his past products were pulled from the car. Fiddleford continued to argue to keep them all, though Stan managed to convince him to throw away the TotalSham. There was no saving it with the type of dye he used. 

“I didn’t realize you had quite so many products, Stanley.” Ford said. “These are actually rather impressive, especially considering you didn’t have any training or schooling about this type of thing.”

Stan’s jaw dropped. Ford was actually impressed by him? Over his shitty inventions. 

He scoffed, keeping his back to Ford. “You and Fidds could easily make this stuff in your sleep. Maybe they’d actually work for more than one use too.” 

“Maybe so,” Ford mused, “But Fiddleford and I have taken classes for this kind of thing. We should be able to do that. You didn’t and yet these are still pretty good. All they’d need is some minor adjustments to make them working as they should.” 

Stan’s cheeks flushed at the praise. “Heh, maybe if the boxing instructor thing doesn’t work out, you guys could show me.” 

He glanced behind him to Ford with a grin. Ford smiled back. 

“I’d like that.” Ford replied warmly. 

“Uh, Stan,” Fiddleford cut in, looking through the front seat of the car. “What’s this?”

Stan ducked his head into the front seat. Fiddleford was pointing at the picture of the U.S. he had taped up. Large X’s blocked out the states he was banned from. 

“Oh,” Stan laughed, “I use that to keep track of which states I’m banned from.”

Ford rested a hand on his shoulder as he peaked over Stan’s shoulder. 

“What’s that?” He asked, reaching for the corner of a picture peeking out from behind his sun visor. He pulled it out to reveal the picture of Ford and Stan at a boxing match that Stan had kept tapped underneath for safe keeping. 

Ford was silent for a moment as he looked at the picture. He ran a thumb over the worn photo. 

“You kept this?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

Stan straightened up, forcing Ford to do the same. He rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Well yeah,” he said. “I just keep it under the visor for safekeeping and easy access.” 

“Easy access?” Ford asked, looking up from the photo to Stan’s face. 

“Yeah, Uh, you know.” Stan stammered, “I look at it a lot, especially when things got tough. Kind of kept me on track, ya know.” 

Ford smiled and handed the photo back to Stan, which he quickly tucked it back into its place. 

“I have a picture like that too.” Ford replied, voice quiet. 

“Is it that picture of Tesla you always kept by your desk in high school?” Stan laughed. 

“What? No! I mean, I do have that but that’s not what I’m talking about.” Ford fiddled with his hands, “I’ll show you when we’re inside, but I keep a photo of us on the Stan o’ War in my physics textbook.” 

Shocked by this omission, Stan’s jaw dropped. He had always assumed that Ford wouldn’t have kept anything having to do with him. He’d never asked (and frankly, he didn’t care to ask even at this point) what Ford had done with all of his stuff after he’d been kicked out. But now he knew that not only had Ford kept an old photo of them, but took it with him to school and kept it safe in his textbook, Stan was floored with shock. 

He was aware that Ford was staring at him, probably expecting some sort of reaction. Stan didn’t trust his voice so instead, he threw his arms around Ford in a hug. 

Ford was stiff in the hug and for a moment, Stan wondered if it was too much too soon. A moment later, Ford recovered from the initial shock and wrapped his arms around Stan. 

“You’re just a secret softy, aren’t you?” Stan said, not caring how much his voice wavered. 

“Not as much as you, you knucklehead.” Ford replied, voice thick with affection. 

As if on cue, the two twins chanted out, “Pat pat” as they accented the words with a clap on the others back. As they broke the hug, they laughed. 

“I can’t believe we both still remember the awkward sibling hug.” Ford laughed.

“How could we not?” Stan laughed. The twins laughter died down and Stan awkwardly punched Ford’s shoulders. 

“Now get back to work. I ain’t payin’ ya to goof off.” Stan replied good naturedly. 

Ford returned the light punch, “You’re not paying us at all.”

Stan scoffed, “What do you want, a kiss on the cheek?” 

“Eh, on second thought, I’ll just get back to cleaning.” Ford sneered playfully. 

After that, the rest of the evening cleaning went by uneventfully. Once they were done, Stan lugged all of the trash bags to the dumpster and threw them in. It’d been a while since he’d seen his car so clean. 

He piled as many of his old products into his trunk as he could. All that was left was the vacuum cleaner which Stan took inside with them as the trio rushed back to the warmth of their apartment. 

They broke open the bottles of alcohol and curled up on the mattresses still set up in the living room. The TV was turned on, but it mostly became background noise as the trio conversed and laughed together. 

Fiddleford and Stan got up closer to dinner time to smoke in Fiddleford’s room. Ford volunteered to make dinner for them since he didn’t want to participate anyways. With perfect timing, dinner was ready by the time they were done. 

The rest of the night was spent with Fiddleford and Stan giggling to themselves like a couple of school girls. 

“Just what is so funny?” Ford finally asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. 

This only made Fiddleford and Stan burst into laughter more, leaning against each other. 

Ford, seeing he wasn’t going to get an answer from them anytime soon, rolled his eyes and took a long drink from the rum and coke he had mixed together. 

The night went on like this until at long last, the trip tired out. Glasses were discarded on the couch and after changing into their pjs, they curled up under the blankets of the bed. 

None of them had the heart to break up the conjoined bed in the living room, and seeing as how they needed to get up early to travel anyway, they left it as it was and slept cuddled together as they had the previous night. 

—-

The next morning, the alarm that had been set up by the bed blared early in the morning. Fiddleford groaned and untangled himself from Stan to hit snooze. Flopping an arm over the side of the bed, he pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. 

To his side, Stan and Ford groaned. The two brothers also untangled themselves. Ford rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. 

“It's too early.” He groaned, voice muffled by his arm. 

Stan groaned in agreement. Rolling over, he shifted a bit to snugly press his chest against Fiddleford’s back as he draped an arm over the mechanics waist. 

“Five more minutes.” He grumbled into Fiddleford’s ear. 

Fiddleford chuckled affectionately and covered the hand resting at his side with his own. 

“Five minutes sounds good.” Fiddleford agreed. His own voice was also thick with sleep. 

Stan nestled his head into the crook of Fiddleford’s neck. Warm air tickled Fiddleford’s skin every time Stan exhaled. Slowly, he found himself drifting off into a light sleep once again. 

It was all too soon when the alarm broke through his slumber. Feeling more tired then he did before, he slapped his hand around until it found the off button. Dragging his hand down his face, he groaned. 

Stan was stirring and a low groan sounded against his ear. 

“Come on, boys. We got a long day ahead of us.” Fiddleford said, trying to force himself up as much as he was trying to rouse the twins. Grasping the hand still on his side, he pulled it up to his lips to press a kiss to his hand before slipping out of the warmth and comfort of the bed. 

Pushing himself to his feet, a chuckle left his lips as he turns out and takes in the sight of the Stan twins. Ford has cocooned himself into the blankets and only the tuff of his bed head was visible. 

Stan had ended up rolling back over onto his back and stretched his arms wide as he yawned loudly. Turning to Ford, he shook his twins shoulders. 

“Come on, bro. Gotta get up.” Stan said, words still half slurred with sleep. All he got from Ford in response was another groan. 

Fiddleford took a few steps towards Ford’s side of the mattress but Stan held up a hand. 

“I got this, Fidds. I know a secret to getting this one out of bed.” Stan added, poking a finger in Ford’s direction. 

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow curiously. He watched as Stan shifted closer to Ford who was still buried under the blanket with Stan. After a moment's pause, a noise had Fiddleford’s eyebrows shooting up in shock. 

Ford’s form stiffened, and after what felt like a long moment of anticipation (especially on Stan’s part. His lips were pressed together to keep from laughing as he watched Ford intently) Ford gagged and threw the blankets off of him. 

Stan burst out laughing, unable to contain himself anymore at the sight of Ford’s scrunched up features. 

“Did you— did you really just Dutch oven me?” Ford squawked, covering his nose with his hand. Fiddleford’s jaw dropped and he found himself laughing along with Stan. 

The aforementioned twin couldn’t respond due to how hard he was laughing. Ford have him a shrug as a small smile tugged at his lips. 

Sure enough though, his trick worked. With one last grumble under his breath, Ford pushed himself to his feet. He collected his glasses from the couch and slipped them onto his nose. 

“I see that at least hasn’t changed in four years.” Ford could barely keep the amusement out of his voice as he spoke. 

Stan’s laughter died down, “We told ya to get up, Sixer.” He offered. He pushed himself up by his arms until he was sitting up. His wince did not go unnoticed to Fiddleford. 

Stepping towards the bed, Fiddleford offered a hand to him. Stan’s hand grasped his and with a grunt, pulled himself to his feet. 

“Oh, ow. Everything hurts.” Stan groaned. Fiddleford rest his hand over his back. 

“Let’s get you some coffee.” 

As the pot of coffee was brewing, the trio changing out of their PJs and packed them along with some other changes of clothes. Crowding together in the apartments tiny bathroom, the trio picked up their toothbrushes but stopped as they looked in the mirror.

“Oh.” Ford said. 

“Yeah, think we’re gonna scare your family?” Stan asked. The three of them looked as though they had just popped out of a tornado full of bears. Their hair was still disheveled from sleep, but that could be fixed. The bruises that marred Stan and Ford’s faces were even darker. The cuts had at least started to heal, but they still looked like a wreck. 

“Uh,” Fiddleford trailed off, scratching his neck. “Probably will.” 

Ford’s lips pressed into a thin line thoughtfully. They stood there for a moment before Stan shrugged. “We can always pick up some make up from the department store before we leave. That’ll at least help to dull the color.” 

Experimentally, he poked at a bruise on his face and winced. Deciding this to be a good idea, the trio finished brushing their teeth and fixing their hair. 

The coffee was done by the time they left the bathroom. Pouring the brown liquid into three travel mugs, the pair paused to take a few sips of the coffee before sharing a look. 

“You two nerds ready to hit the road?” Stan asked, grin tugging at his features. 

For the first time that morning, it hit Fiddleford that he was going home. Excitement fluttered in his stomach and he nodded with a grin. 

“Alright, then let’s head out!” Stan exclaimed. He retrieved his coat from the coat rack and slid it on before slipping his bag over his shoulder. 

Ford and Fiddleford followed his lead and the trio left the apartment and began the walk to Stan’s car. 

“Ugh, at least it’ll be warmer in Tennessee.” Stan groaned as he pulled his hood over his head. 

“Not by much, I’m afraid. But at least it won’t get below freezing, most likely.” Fiddleford offered. As they approached Stan’s car, he unlocked the doors for them. 

“F, you can take the front seat now. We can switch part way through.” Ford offered as he let himself into the backseat. Fiddleford tried to tell himself that the flush on his cheeks was from the cold weather and not because he knew that Ford was trying to set him up with his twin. 

“Sounds good to me.” Fiddleford said as he sank down into the passenger seat. 

Stan popped his trunk and deposited his bag in the back before joining them in the car. He turned the key into the ignition and the Stanleymobile purred to life. He cranked up the heat before pulling out of the lot. 

After a quick stop at the department store (luckily the cashier hadn’t questioned why they were buying makeup seeing as he recognized Stan from the tournament and figured he was buying the makeup to cover his bruises) where the twins smeared the cover up onto their bruises until they deemed their faces presentable enough, they hit the road. 

“Are you sure you’re goin’ to be ok to drive for this long, Stan? It’s an awfully long drive, ya know?” Fiddleford asked as they drove out of town. He had found quite a few maps in Stan’s glove box and was in the process of spreading the ones they’d need across his lap. 

Stan scoffed, “Please, I’ve driven for longer before. It’ll be nice to have some company this time.” 

It took awhile for Fiddleford to map out their course on the worn maps. Stanley interjected as Fiddleford read off the maps, knowing when some of the roads had a tendency to get busier than others and which roads to take instead. 

However, considering it was so close to the holidays, the road was busier than usual no matter what route they took. 

Ignoring most of the debate, Ford say contently in the back seat. He had planned ahead for the long journey and had packed several books, as well as a sketchbook to entertain himself with during the ride. 

However, the books couldn’t entertain him for long. It had been days, possibly weeks, since he had gotten a full night sleep and a long road trip posed a perfect scenario for a nap. 

About an hour into the trip, Stan glanced back in the rear view mirror and noticed Ford in the back seat, sketch book still open on his lap as Ford slept against the window of the car. 

“Hey Fidds,” Stan murmured softly. When Fiddleford turned to look at him, his eyes quickly flickered to the backseat. Following his gaze, he chuckled warmly at the sight of Ford finally getting some sleep. 

“It’s about time.” Fiddleford commented as he faced towards the road again. 

“I’ll say.” Stan replied. He paused for a moment before glancing to Fiddleford. 

“You doin’ alright, Fidds?” He asked, gravely voice as gentle as it could be. 

Fiddleford looked slightly confused but responded cheerily nonetheless, “I’m great! I have t’ say, I’m real excited for ya to meet my family.” 

“I’m excited to meet your family too,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I was meanin’ after last night though. You had me real scared there, ya know. I’ve never seen ya so scared and I want t’ make sure you’re doing better now.” 

“Oh, right.” Fiddleford’s voice dropped, “Yeah, I guess I’ve always had a tendency to get nervous. That night— it really frightened me.”

“You’ve always seemed so level headed before.” Stan commented. 

“Someone has to around here. Can you imagine what would happen if I had to leave the job of being level headed to you or Stanford?” Fiddleford smirked. 

“Oh, don’t even say that.” Stan laughed. As his laugh died down, the only sound heard was the rumble of the car engine. 

“I’m doing fine though, Stanley.” Fiddleford offered. Stan spared a glance away from the road towards him and reached a hand out to thread his fingers between Fiddleford’s, “There’s something about that night that I’d rather forget but, all in all, it could have been a lot worse.” 

Stan nodded thoughtfully. He gave Fiddleford’s hand a squeeze. “You know, you were pretty great then.” 

“What?” Fiddleford’s voice pitched, “What do you mean? I didn’t do hardly nothin’ to help the two of ya’s out.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Stan exclaimed, “Are you forgetting that you jumped onto the back of the guy who was about to beat my face in?” 

When Stan spared a glance at Fiddleford, he noticed his cheeks were flushed, “That?” He said, “Please, that’s just the kind of grapplin’ my brother and I used to get up to.” 

Stan’s jaw dropped, “You do that with your brother? Fidds, you looked like a wild animal!” Fiddleford’s shoulders shrank ever so slightly. Stan quickly added, “It was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.” 

“You really think so?” Fiddleford asked, looking hesitantly hopeful. 

Stan squeezed his hand, “I know so.” 

“You know, you looked pretty badass yourself.” Fiddleford teased. 

“Oh yeah?” Stan asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, well, you look pretty badass when you’re boxing, but seeing you fight when there’s no rules to hold ya back really just adds to the badassery.” Fiddleford explained, his eyes twinkling with amusement. 

“Badassery? Are you sure that’s a word, nerd?” Stan teased. 

“It is if I want it to be.” Fiddleford stuck his tongue out at him. 

A groan sounded from the back seat. Shit, how long had Ford been awake for. 

“Can we please pull over at a rest stop?” Ford asked, voice still groggy with sleep, “I think all that coffee ran through me already.” 

“Let me guess, you’re gonna get some more coffee afterward though, right?” Stan asked, looking back at Ford through the rear view mirror. Ford didn’t answer, but as he sank into the seat further, he knew the answer. 

“Glad to see some things don’t change at least. Ya know, Fidds, Ford was always havin’ us find rest stops on the rare occasions we’d go on vacation because he had the world's smallest bladder.”

Ford’s cheeks reddened in the backseat, causing a boisterous laugh to erupt from Stan. 

“What?!” Ford retorted, “I don’t— I didn’t do that!” 

“Whatever you want to tell yourself, Sixer.” Stan grinned in the rear view mirror. A few miles down the road, he saw a sign for a gas station and turned on his blinker. After taking the exit, he turned into the gas station and parked outside. 

Ford opened the door and darted out of the car before Stan or Fiddleford could even unbuckle their seat belts. 

Fiddleford and Stan followed after Ford more slowly. They picked out a few drinks and snacks for the road. When Ford finally emerged from the bathroom, he got himself some coffee. 

The trio checked out and returned back to the car. “You want a turn in the front seat, Ford?” Fiddleford asked with a yawn. 

“Sure.” Ford replied, going to the passenger side door. 

“You taking a nap now, Fiddlesticks?” Stan asked as he slides into the driver's seat. 

“That’s the plan.” Fiddleford said, gathering Ford’s books from the back seat and handing them to him before sitting down. 

Once the trio was settled, Stan pulled back onto the highway. Ford pulled out the maps that Fiddleford had already marked the route on and glanced through them. Meanwhile, Fiddleford decided on laying across the back seat and was fast asleep in a matter of minutes. 

“So,” Ford pointedly says, glancing to Stan. His twin casts a side glance at him, mildly worried by Ford’s tone. 

“So?” Stan asks. 

“What’s going on with you and Fiddleford?” Ford asked. Stan sharply cast him another glance before quickly looking in the rear view mirror. Fiddleford was still fast asleep in the back seat. Unless he was purposefully drooling, he was definitely asleep. 

“Trust me, he’s sleep and will be for a while.” Ford reassured him. 

“Still, keep it down, will ya?” Stan retorted. Shifting in his seat, his hands tapped against the steering wheel. 

“I’m not sure, honestly.” Stan sighed, “I can’t tell what’s going on with him. Or us.” 

Ford snorted, “You’re both hopeless.” 

“That’s real rich comin’ from you, you know that?” Stan replied, briefly looking away from the road to flash a good natured grin at his twin. 

Ford just smiled at him. Things were slowly returning to how they had been prior to the science fair accident. Being in each other’s presence was as natural as breathing and Stan wasn’t nearly as afraid to crack a few jokes at him. 

The idea of being cooped up in a car for hours on end with his brother might have seemed a bit nerve wracking following their initial reunion. Their relationship certainly had been better than the radio silence, but Fiddleford had been a mediator for them, in a sense. 

The southern man had been common ground for both of them, and had relieved them of the stress and tension of having to talk one on one most of the time. 

But with Fiddleford currently asleep in the back seat, there was just Stan and Ford, as it had been through a majority of their childhood. 

The twins quickly fell back into their routine despite the four years gap. 

For the next few hours, Fiddleford slept soundly in the back seat. Ford wasn’t kidding when he said the engineer wasn’t likely to wake up. The twins spent most of the time recounting stories from their childhood, and occasionally sharing new stories from their time apart. 

It wasn’t uncommon that one of the twins (especially Stan) would burst out in loud laughter, yet every time one or both of them would look in the back seat, Fiddleford was fast asleep. 

When he did finally wake around noon, the twins easily pulled him into the conversation, telling him several stories or listening as Fiddleford told stories of his own. For the most part, he would recount stories of some embarrassing or ridiculous thing Ford had done in their earlier years of college, but occasionally, he told a story from his own childhood growing up on a hog farm in rural Tennessee. 

They were barely aware as the sun moved across the sky as the day wore on. After the initial stop, they only stopped for lunch, where Ford and Fiddleford swapped seats again, and one final time close to dinner. 

After examining the map and keeping an eye out for signs along the highway, the trio finally found a small town near the Tennessee border. It didn’t take long for them to find a half decent motel to stay in for the night. 

Stiff from sitting in a car all day, the trio exited the car and wobbled towards the main lobby. On Stan’s insistence, he paid for a room with his winnings. After retrieving what they would need for the night from the car, the trio retreated to the room. It was nothing special for a motel room. Stan has paid for a room with two queen sized beds, a small bathroom and a kitchenette. After dumping their belongings on the floor near the radiator, they collapsed onto the bed. 

“Don’t wanna move.” Ford groaned, his words muffled by the pillow that he was face down on. 

“Agreed.” 

A loud gurgling sound made the twins stiffen. 

“What was that?” Ford asked. Stan was already reaching into his pocket for the knuckle dusters he had taken from the car. 

“Uh,” Fiddleford replied sheepishly, “That’s my stomach.” 

“I guess it is dinner time.” Ford admitted, rolling over onto his back. 

Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, Stan grunted in agreement. 

“I really don’t feel like getting up.” Fiddleford groaned. 

“Then let’s order in.” Stan suggested. 

After calling the main office to ask for a recommendation, Fiddleford called in an order from a local Chinese restaurant. 20 minutes later, the trio was happily eating out of their take out boxes. 

“So, how long do you think it’ll take for us to reach your farm from here?” Stan asked through a mouthful of sweet and sour chicken. 

Fiddleford looked thoughtful as he finished chewing his teriyaki chicken. After swallowing, he replied, “If we leave again at the same time, we should be there by lunchtime.” He replied. 

“Sounds good to me,” Stan shrugged. 

“Are you sure you’re still ok to keep driving tomorrow? You didn’t get a chance to nap like Ford and I did.” Fiddleford asked. 

Stan waved his hand at Fiddleford, “I can sleep when we get to your house. It’s not a big deal.”

Fiddleford smiled, “I’m so glad you boys are comin’ home with me!” His knee was beginning to jump again. Stan watched apprehensively, wondering if Fiddleford was feeling anxious about bringing them home. However, Fiddleford looked too happy. Perhaps his leg also jumped when he got excited? 

“I’m curious to see this farm you talk so much about,” Stan replied. He laughed as he added, “And to see if your siblin’s have names just as..unique as yours.”

“I haven’t told you their names yet?” Fiddleford asked. 

“Nope.” Stan replied, “Don’t tell me now, I don’t want spoilers.” 

Fiddleford laughed. Once they were done eating and had disposed of their food, Stan was the first to crawl into bed. 

“If you’re going to bed, you forgot to change into your pjs.” Ford reminded him as he retrieved his flannel pjs to change into. 

Stan pulled the blankets up to his nose, “Don’t care. Too tired.” 

Ford shook his head at him as he retreated towards the bathroom, “I don’t know how you sleep in jeans.” 

Stan merely shrugged as a response as Ford disappeared into the bathroom to change. Meanwhile, Fiddleford was grabbing his own pjs. Once Ford emerged a few minutes later, Fiddleford closed the bathroom door behind him to change. 

After setting his folded clothes on top of the dresser, Ford crawled under the covers of the bed adjacent to Stan’s. 

Fiddleford exited the bathroom and deposited his clothes beside Ford’s. He flipped the light switch to the main room off before carefully maneuvering towards the beds in the dark. He pulled back the blankets to the empty spot beside Stan, falling into habit as he settled down. 

“Ya joining me tonight, Fidds?” Stan asked, poking his head a bit further out of the covers. 

Fiddleford froze, “Is that ok?” 

“‘Course it is!” Stan laughed, “I’m glad to see you weren’t scared off after seeing me dutch oven Ford this morning.” 

Fiddleford settled into the bed, pausing to glance at Stan, “You’re not going to Dutch oven me as well, are you?” He asked, a tinge of apprehension in his voice. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Fiddlesticks.” 

From the next bed over, Ford snorted, “Gee, thanks Stan.” 

“Anytime, bro.” Stan replied, either not noticing the sarcasm, or choosing to ignore it. 

“If we’re all going to bed, do you mind getting the desk light?” Fiddleford asked. 

Stan rolled over with an exaggerated grunt and flipped the light off. 

“Good night, nerds.” Stan replied, rolling over and throwing an arm around Fiddleford’s waist. 

Luckily, neither Fiddleford nor Stan could see the others blush in the dark. Fiddleford wiggled closer to Stan ever so subtly. 

“Good night you two.” The southern man returned. 

“Good night, knuckleheads.” Ford replied fondly.


	20. Letters Home

_And now, you would not believe the things I miss_  
_It's all the little things that fill that list_  
_Like playing with the dogs_  
_And helping father chop the wood behind the fence_

The next morning, the trio rose bright and early yet again. It didn’t take long to collect all of their belongings (mainly their clothes from the day before as well as their pjs) and check out.

With only a few more hours to drive until they reached Fiddleford’s farm, they were much more energetic than the previous day. Fiddleford’s knee shakes (Stan and Ford teasingly dubbed it KJPM, or knee jumps per minute) were at an unprecedented high. This only helped to support Stan’s hypothesis that Fiddleford’s knee also jumped when he was excited.

They crossed the border into Tennessee not long after they started driving.

“Feel good to be home, Fidds?” Stan asked as he cast a sideward glance at the southern man. Fiddleford grinned at him, but then again, the same grin had been practically plastered to his face since the moment they woke up.

“Oh you have no idea how excited I am to go home.” Fiddleford replied. Stan chuckled affectionately and turned his gaze back to the road.

Fiddleford sharply inhaled, nearly startling Stan, “Oh gosh, Stan, I’m sorry.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow at him. “What for?”

“Well, it’s just, I know you haven’t been to your own home in four years; it was insensitive for me to say you have no idea how excited I am to go home.” Fiddleford said, his leg beginning to bounce again.

Resting a hand on Fiddleford’s knee, Stan gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Relax, Fidds. I thought nothin’ of it.” He assured his friend, “‘Sides, I am home. I got you two.”

Fiddleford smiled at him and Stan could practically feel Ford’s eyes on him, probably also smiling at him, from the back seat.

“It would be nice to see Ma though,” Stan added as an afterthought. He really should call her and tell her he and Ford made up. “Shermie too.”

“Maybe we can make a trip to see them.” Ford suggested.

Stan took his hand on Fiddleford’s knee back and gripped the steering wheel tightly. As much as he’d love to do that, he wasn’t so sure Pa would welcome him home.

“Yeah, maybe.” Stan said, with no real conviction in his voice.

Ford seemed to understand what wasn’t being said and luckily didn’t say anything else. Stan wasn’t really in the mood to dampen the good mood by arguing about whether or not Stan could go home or not.

“You should call her again,” Fiddleford replied cheerily. “I’m sure hearing that you two made up will be the best Christmas— er, or Hanukkah- present you two could give her.”

“Yeah,” Stan said, smiling affectionately at the thought of his mother’s reactions to hearing both of her boys on the phone. He glanced to Ford through the mirror, “We should do that, Ford.”

“I think Ma would have a heart attack if we did that.” Ford laughed.

“Ok, ok, we’ll give her some sort of warning.” Stan agreed.

They continued driving down the high way. Eventually, they reached part of the state that Fiddleford was familiar with. Stashing the maps back into the glove box, he elected to give Stan directions from memory.

Turning off of the highway, they drove until even the small towns faded away to open farm land. Judging by Fiddleford’s restless excitement, they were getting close.

“There it is!” Fiddleford exclaimed.

Stan saw nothing.

“There’s what?”

“The driveway! It’s right there!” Fiddleford exclaimed as he excitedly pointed out the window at a small dirt path just barely visible.

Pulling into the driveway, the car crept slowly down the path, churning up dust behind them. Yeesh, did all farms have long driveways like this?

A quaint farm house slowly inched closer. The screen door burst open as five people tumbled out into the yard, hurrying towards the car.

Fiddleford waved wildly at his family as two young children ran up to the car and trotted alongside it until Stan slowed to a stop.

Not missing a beat, Fiddleford threw the door open and got out.

“Bettina! Cricket!” Fiddleford exclaimed as the small children ran into his open arms. They practically threw themselves at him, nearly causing Fiddleford to fall backwards against the car.

Stan and Ford got out of the car a bit more slowly. Another person who appeared to be slightly older than themselves walked up as Fiddleford stood.

“Kip!” Fiddleford exclaimed, hugging the other man.

“It’s good to see you finally, Fiddleford!” He replied, patting Fiddleford’s back before pulling away from the hug, “You still look skinny as always, bean pole. Have ya been eatin’?”

Fiddleford laughed, “You’re soundin’ like Ma, ya know that?”

“Speaking of!” A woman exclaimed cheerily as she rushed over to the group.

“Ma! Pa!” Fiddleford exclaimed as he threw his arms around his parents. They began chatting about the ride up but their voices faded away as Stan watched the joyful reunion.

Envy reared it’s head as Stan observed Fiddleford being greeted warmly by his family. Both his Ma and Pa looked delighted to see their son.

While Stan was more than grateful to finally have his brother back, he missed having a family. Four years was a long time to go without seeing his family or his home town.

“You two must be the Pines twins that I’ve heard so much about!” Stan snapped out of his thoughts as Fiddleford’s mother addressed them.

The rest of the McGuckets heads swiveled as they turned to look at the two twins standing stiffly to the side.

Stan was the first to respond, easily smoothing a grin onto his face. He stretched his hand out towards the woman.

“I’m Stanley,” he said, “I’ve heard a lot about ya too.”

Mrs. McGucket playfully swatted at his hand. Instead, she pulled him into a warm hug, “No need for a hand shake, you two are honorary McGuckets now!”

Stan wrapped his arms around the woman, laughing airily. There was something about a mother’s hug. Even though she wasn’t his mother, it still had the same warmth as his Ma’s hugs.

He might be a grown man now, but God did he miss his mother’s hugs.

As they pulled away from the hug, she firmly gripped his shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze, “I’m so glad you two could make it. Thank ya for driving all the way out here. I made sure t’ make ya an extra apple pie just for ya.”

Stan swallowed thickly. No way in hell was his first impression going to be him blubbering like a baby.

“Thanks for having us.” Stan managed to get out.

Patting his shoulder, she moved on to Ford, giving him the same warm greeting.

While she was preoccupied with Ford, Mr. McGucket approached Stan, offering him a hug as well.

Stan was so shocked that it took him a moment to return the hug. He didn’t think he could recall a time his father had ever hugged him. He must have at some point, maybe when they were younger, but not when Stan had been old enough to remember.

Fathers just didn’t hug their sons, or at least that’s what Filbrick had said once. It was just how things were. Mr. McGucket apparently didn’t live by that same motto.

Where Mrs. McGuckets hug had reminded him of his mother, Mr. McGuckets hug was a whole new experience in itself.

“It’s good to have ya here, son.” The other man spoke as they pulled away. There was a knowing glint in his eyes. Did Fiddleford tell his parents about his history?

His spine prickled at the thought. He didn’t want their pity. More so, he didn’t know how much they knew, and the unknown terrified him.

He realized he hadn’t responded yet and jerked out a nod with a sheepish smile. Fiddleford suddenly was beside him with a hand resting on his shoulder.

As Ford and Mr. McGucket exchanged a hug, Fiddleford offered an encouraging smile to Stan as he gently squeezed his shoulder.

Stan responded with a smile, hoping that Fiddleford understood his unspoken message. He didn’t need Fiddleford to worry about him. He was fine.

Mr. McGucket and Ford parted, drawing Fiddleford’s attention away.

“Ford, Stanley, these are my siblin’s,” he said. He gestured to the two younger children first.

They appeared to be around 7 or 9 by their appearance. The girl was several inches taller than the boy, and sported the same sandy blonde hair worn in two braided pig tails.

“This is my lil’ sister, Bettina.”

The girl grinned widely, revealing a gap just off from the center where a tooth should be.

“And my lil’ brother, Cricket.” Fiddleford said, gesturing to the smaller boy at her side. He had Fiddleford’s skinny build and long nose, but his hair was darker brown. There was a mischievous look in his eyes that Stan recognized. As his name was mentioned, the corners of his lips tugged into a smirk.

Fiddleford turned slightly to gesture to the older man.

“This is my older brother, Kipling.” Fiddleford said.

“Just Kip is fine.” He replied, sticking out a hand to the Pines twins. He was several inches taller than them, yet skinner than them (though not quite as skinny as Fiddleford). His hair was fairly long, curling at the edges and framing his face and long nose.

Stan shook his hand.

“How’s it hangin’?” He greeted him. Kip offered a hand to Ford. Ford hesitated before reciprocating the hand shake.

The two younger siblings inhaled sharply.

“Woah!” Bettina gasped, her eyes wide as saucers as she stared at Ford’s outstretched hand.

Ford’s face flushed and he quickly took his hand back, folding his hands behind his back.

“You have six fingers!” Cricket exclaimed.

Stan stepped closer to his twin, throwing an arm around his shoulder, “Yep! My brother’s one of a kind!”

“Actually,” Ford interjected quietly, “About one in every 500 people in the U.S. are polydactyl.”

“Polly dactus?” Bettina asked, head tilting to the side.

“It’s the term that means having extra digits.” Ford explained.

“You know what’s the best part about that?” Stan asked with a cocked eyebrow and a dramatic hand gesture, earning curious looks from the gathered people.

“What?” Bettina finally asked.

“You might be able to high five, but Stanford over here is the only one who can high six.” Stan held his opposite hand out to Ford. For a moment, Stan thought he was going to leave him hanging (just like he did four years ago. No, don’t think about that now).

But when Stan glanced at him, he noticed that Ford is looking at his hand with a watery smile. He returned the high five, smiling at Stan.

It’s unspoken, but they both know what the other was thinking.

They haven’t exchanged a high six since before Stan was kicked out.

“Woah!” Bettina and Cricket echoed.

“I wanna high six!” Bettina exclaimed, hopping in excitement.

“Me too! Me too!” Cricket chimed in.

Ford chuckled, finally throwing the arm he was keeping hidden behind his back around Stan’s shoulder.

“Sorry, kids. Stan’s the only one who has high six privileges.” Ford said, giving Stan an appreciative smile.

The two younger kids pouted. Fiddleford rest a hand over his two young siblings shoulders.

“How about we go inside?” He suggested. There was a chatter of agreement. The trio returned to the car to grab their bags from the trunk before following the McGucket family inside the farm house.

“Bettina, Cricket, why don’t you show Stanley and Stanford to their room?” Mrs. McGucket asked. Glancing to Ford and Stan, she added, “I hope ya don’t mind that you’ll have to share; we only have one guest room.”

“Don’t mind at all, Mrs. M.” Stan replied.

The two younger children gripped his and Ford’s hands and hurried down the hall.

“This is where you guy will be sleepin’” Bettina told them as she nudged the door open with her foot. The room was somewhat small with old wallpaper plastered on the walls. The window faced the back yard, showing a glimpse of the barn and pastures.

The twins exchanged a look as they took in the sight of their bed. Fit snugly in the corner was a bunk bed, resembling the one they had had as kids.

“No way!” Stan gasped.

“I call bottom bunk!” Ford elbowed his arm.

Stan’s eyes widened. He eyed the top bed fearfully. He had always slept on the bottom bunk as a kid due to his fear of heights.

“What? Why?” Stan squeaked, cursing himself for the way his voice tilted into a pitch he hadn’t even known he could reach.

Ford laughed at him and stepped to the bed, throwing his bag on the top bed. Stan sighed heavily in relief.

“I’m just kidding with you, knucklehead.” Ford chuckled fondly.

“Are you scared of heights?” Cricket asked as Stan sat down on the edge of the bed.

Stan scoffed, “What? No. Of course not. Why would I be?” He replied, his words stringing together as he tried to sound convincing (and utterly failing).

Cricket and Bettina shared a devious look, “Ya ever ride a horse?”

“I’ve bet on ‘em.” Stan shrugged.

Bettina giggled, “You need to ride Melvin.”

Stan’s eyed her apprehensively, “What’s Melvin?”

“You’ll see.” Bettina grinned, grabbing Crickets hand and pulling him out of the room. They nearly collided with Fiddleford as the southern man stood in the doorway.

“You two settlin’ in ok?” He asked as he squeezed to the side to let his siblings scamper away. He’d only been home for maybe ten minutes, but already his Tennessee accent was bleeding through stronger than it usually did.

“Yeah!” Stan and Ford replied in unison.

Kicking off his shoes, Stan reclined back into the bed.

“Your younger siblin’s sure are cute,” Stan said. “But what the hell’s a Melvin?”

Fiddleford snorted, “Not a ‘what’. It’s a ‘who’.”

Stan rolled his eyes, “Alright, then who is Melvin?”

“Melvin’s one of the horses. He’s rather intimidatin’ t’ look at, but he’s a real gentle giant.” Fiddleford explained.

“Of course.” Stan grumbled.

Fiddleford quirked an eyebrow in confusion.

“Stanley’s afraid of heights.” Ford explained, earning a squawk from Stan, “And now Bettina and Cricket want to have Stan ride Melvin.”

“Well,” Fiddleford considered, “He would be a real good beginner horse.”

“Nuh uh.” Stan shook his head firmly, “I’m not gettin’ on no giant horse.”

“So I can get you on a regular sized horse?” Fiddleford asked.

Stan paused, contemplating for a moment.

“If you got a pony then you got yourself a deal.” Stan finally said.

Fiddleford laughed, “Ok. I’m holdin’ ya to that though.”

“Ma’s busy preparing lunch. It should be ready in a few minutes so if you want, you two can relax and unpack in here until then. After lunch, I can give you the grand tour of the farm if you’re up for it.” Fiddleford glanced between the two twins.

“Sounds good to me.” Stan replied, shrugging.

Ford nodded, “Me too.”

“Alright, then I’ll leave ya to it while I unpack. By the way, I’m two doors down the hall if ya ever need to find me.” Fiddleford replied.

“Thanks, Fiddlesticks.” Stan replied.

Fiddleford left the twins to unpack as he headed towards his own room. Grabbing his bag, Ford began putting his clothes into one of the dressers against the wall.

“It feels like we’re a couple of kids again, doesn’t it?” Ford commented as he set a few of his button downs aside to hang in the closet.

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, “All this place is missing is a couple of nerd posters and it’d be just like our old room.”

“Come to think of it, it is missing that weird funky smell our old room had.” Ford added, “Probably because you haven’t left your sweaty gym clothes lay around in the hamper.”

Ford cast a wayward smirk in Stan’s direction. The aforementioned twin rolled his eyes playfully and got up from the bed to unpack.

“Give me a few days and this room will have the same funk.” Stan teased. Grabbing his bag, he unpacked his clothes into the dresser adjacent to Ford’s.

“By the way, thanks for what you did out there.” Ford said quietly.

“Hmm?”

“With the high six.” Ford fiddled with his hands as he explained.

Stan playfully punched Ford’s shoulder, “That’s what brothers are for, ya knucklehead.”

Ford laughed and returned the punch. Stan’s shoulders rose as he smiled affectionately at his twin.

If he closed his eyes, it almost felt like he was back in Glass Shard Beach.

“So, would you actually ride a pony?” Ford asked curiously.

Stan shrugged, “If it’s little, how hard could it be?”

Ford laughed, “I hope Fiddleford brought his camera.”

* * *

Turns out riding a horse was harder than he thought.

After lunch concluded, Bettina and Cricket grabbed Stan’s wrists and started tugging him outside, speaking too rapidly for Stan to make out what they were saying.

Fiddleford, being more practiced in understanding his younger siblings, quickly stepped in front of them as they drug Stan towards the door.

“Listen here, you two.” He said patiently, “Stan’s had a busy couple of days and I’m sure he’s tired. Did you two even asked if he wanted to ride Melvin?”

Huh. Stan should have guessed what they were doing.

Ford snickered behind him.

Bettina rounded on Stan, “Do you want to ride Melvin?” She asked.

“Melvin, as in the giant horse?” Stan clarified.

Bettina and Cricket nodded with wicked grins.

“Sorry, kids, I ain’t getting on no giant anything.” Stan explained.

“I am not, Stanley.” Ford corrected, still behind him. Stan rolled his eyes, but other than that, ignored him.

The two young children pouted, their bottom lips protruding pitifully in a way that made Stan’s heart twist.

Damn, he was getting soft.

Heaving a sigh, “If ya got a smaller horse, like a pony, I’ll ride it.” He begrudgingly agreed. Their faces lit up.

“Who should he ride?” Cricket asked Bettina.

“Maybe Travis?” Bettina suggested.

This earns a short laugh from Cricket, “He’s too fat for Travis.”

“Cricket Mesons McGucket!” Mrs. McGucket scolded from the kitchen, “That’s very rude. Apologize!”

Stan barely stifled a laugh. He hadn’t even considered how ridiculous it might be to put him on a pony.

“It’s alright, Mrs. M.” He said, “Kids got a point.”

“I didn’t raise my kids to have no manners. Cricket.” She pokes her head into the hallway with a stern look.

“Sorry, Stan.” Cricket muttered. Mrs. McGucket sighed, but disappeared back into the kitchen none the less.

“He could ride Pepper.” Bettina suggested.

As the two siblings agreed on Pepper, Fiddleford looked to Stan.

“You really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” He said.

Stan scoffed, “Please. How hard could it be? It’s just a pony.”

“Fiddleford, please tell me you brought your camera?” Ford asked.

Fiddleford glanced to Ford before looking back to Stan with a grin, “I did. I’m going to go grab it.”

As Fiddleford hurried to his room, the two younger siblings resumed in dragging Stan towards the barn with Ford trailing close behind them.

They chattered excitedly to Stan as they stopped at one of the stall doors where a small black and white horse (Stan vaguely thought the horse resembled a cow) watched as they opened the stall door.

Stan and Ford stepped to the side as the children led the horse from the stall and attached it to some ropes hanging at the sides of the barn aisle.

Bettina hurried to a side door and came back with what looked like a tool box. Stan exchanged a look with his twin and was relieved to see the same shocked look on his face.

They had hardly ever seen a horse growing up in Glass Shard Beach. About the only time they had was when the yearly carnival came to town and offered pony rides to the kids. One year when they were about Bettina’s and Crickets age, they had scrounged together enough coins from under the boardwalk to ride the pony.

Fiddleford and Kip eventually came out to join them. His Polaroid hung around his neck by a strap.

They watched as the two children brushed and put the saddle on the pony. The saddle reminded Stan of the tv show he used to watch growing up, Grandpa the Kid.

Bettina and Cricket excitedly looked to Stan as they finished.

“Hope yer ready.” Bettina said as she took the rope attached to a bunch of leather straps around the horses face and led the horse outside.

Stan gulped, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The McGucket’s led the twins to an outdoor ring. Fiddleford and Kip leaned against the wooden railing and after a brief observation of the two, Ford did the same.

Stan followed Bettina and Cricket into the ring, stopping near the center. They children fussed with the saddle one last time and threw the leather strap over the horses head.

“Ya know how to mount?” Bettina asked.

Stan quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Ok, put your left foot in the stirrup.” Luckily for Stan, she pointed to where she wanted his foot to go. After sticking his shoe into the rounded leather, he looked at her for more instruction.

“Next, hop up and swing your other leg over the saddle.” Bettina said. Stan glanced back to the horse. She made it sound so easy, and even though the pony was fairly short, it still looked like a task.

“You can use the saddle horn to help pull yourself up.” Cricket added helpfully, patting the raised horn of the saddle by the base of the horses neck.

Stan’s lungs expanded as he took a deep breath. He ignored the twinge in his still healing ribs as he grasped his hands around the horn.

“Here goes nothing.” He muttered. Giving a leap, he thrust all of his weight into the stirrup and tugged on the horn. As he hoisted himself off the ground, he leaned over the saddle, grunting loudly as he wiggled his right leg up and over the saddle.

Tugging himself up the rest of the way, he sat back in the saddle with a groan. Beside him, Bettina and Cricket were giggling at him.

“Laugh it up, you two.” He grumbled, resting one hand over his aching ribs.

“Take the reins.” Bettina instructed as she stepped to the side of the horse and pointed to the leather straps they had thrown over the horses head.

Hesitantly, Stan grabbed the reins, holding them close to his chest. Bettina shook her head.

“Hold them lower.” She said.

“Close to your hips.” Cricket added.

Yeesh, he was starting to regret agreeing to this. He did as they said and was relieved when they seemed satisfied.

“Ok, I’m on the horse.” Stan said, “What now?”

He half hoped that would be it. He was more than satisfied to just sit on the horse for a few minutes and call it a day.

“Get ‘im t’ turn around!” Fiddleford called from the side of the ring, “I want a picture!”

“Nope, no need for that.” Stan shouted over to them. Bettina was already grabbing at the reins and turning the horse around to face the crowd by the fence.

“Woah, hey! What’s it doing!” Stan gasped, desperately clinging to the saddle horn and clenching his legs.

The pony’s ears flattened back towards him.

Bettina giggled, “He’s just walking.”

“This is— this is weird.”

Luckily, the horse slowed to a stop as he was facing the fence. Both Ford and Fiddleford looked about to blow. His twin had a six fingered hand clamped tightly over his mouth to keep from laughing. Fiddleford wasn’t much better.

“Say cheese!” Fiddleford called out to him as he looked through the eyepiece of the Polaroid.

Stan flipped him the bird as the camera flashed.

“You look a little nervous.” Ford teased, “You should know horses are a very stable animal.”

“Fuck off, Ford.” Stan bit back.

“Language!” Fiddleford chided him sharply.

“Oh fuck! I mean shit! Er.. I mean... darn.” Stan stammered.

“Nice save, Stan.” Ford replied flatly.

Stan rolled his eyes and looked down to Bettina and Cricket.

“Now what?”

Bettina handed the reins back to Stan. “Now, you’re gonna ask ‘im t’ walk.”

“Um...ok.” Stan said. Looking forward at Peppers head, he hesitantly did as he was told. “Uh...can you walk?”

The horse didn’t budge. He expected as much.

Bettina and Cricket giggled.

“You’re silly!” Bettina laughed, “Not literally ask ‘im! You’re gonna ask with your legs.”

Yeesh, that wasn’t any better of an instruction.

“You’re gonna have to give me a better description, kid.”

“You squeeze your calves.” Cricket jumped in, thankfully. “Saying ‘walk’ also helps.”

Ok, so he wasn’t completely an idiot for asking the horse to walk..maybe. He clenched his calf muscles against the side of the horse, little by little increasing in strength seeing as he was still stationary.

“Walk.” He said.

Still, Pepper refused to move.

A few feet away, Fiddleford snorted. His hands quickly clamped over his mouth in an attempt to stiffle his laughter. Kip, who had been silent until this point, was even snickering.

Feeling his face grow red, Stan could feel himself steadily growing more frustrated. Wasn’t riding a pony supposed to be easy?

“Why isn’t it going?” He huffed.

“She don’t want to.” Bettina explained.

“Well, that makes two of us.” Stan muttered.

“Give ‘er a nudge with your leg.” Cricket said.

Stan barely refrained himself from sighing. Following his instruction, he nudged the horse forward. With a sigh, the pony begrudgingly took a few slow steps forward.

Stan’s hands flew to the saddle horn, gripping it tightly as he hunched over in the saddle.

“You gotta steer!” Bettina exclaimed.

“How?” Stan was pointedly ignoring the way his voice cracked.

“With the reins! Duh!” Bettina replied sharply.

“Bettina, be nice!” Fiddleford chided. “You haven’t given Stan any instruction.”

Ducking under the fence, Fiddleford jogged over towards where Stan’s pony was slowing to a stop. He offered a sympathetic smile as he approached him.

“Ok, so I’ll give you a quick crash course.” Fiddleford explained, resting a hand on Pepper’s neck, “So to ask your horse to go faster, you’re going to start off by squeezing your calves. If that don’t work, try a light nudge with your feet, and get more forceful the longer it don’t listen.”

Stan nodded. His face must have betrayed the apprehension he was feeling as Fiddleford smiled softly at him and moved his hand from Pepper’s neck to his knee.

“You’re doing great, Stan! Ridin’ horses is much harder than it looks in the movies.” He leaned closer as he whispered, “And Bettina and Cricket aren’t the best teachers.”

Stan sighed, relaxing ever so slightly, “Thanks Fidds.”

“No problem, Stanley. Now to steer,” he began, “Pull your hand back straight towards your belly button, but try not to tug on ‘is mouth too hard. Pull yer left hand t’ go left, or your right hand to go right.”

Stan nodded, still apprehensive.

Fiddleford’s voice dropped low again, “I’ll let ya go around the ring for a few times before I step in. Trust me, you’ll be here all day if it’s up to Bettina.”

Stan sighed with relief, “You’re a life saver, Fidds.”

Fiddleford gives him a dopey smile, “I know. What would you do without me?”

The southern man laughed playfully as he retreated towards the fence.

“I wonder that myself.” Stan laughed, but there’s nothing but seriousness in his tone. Fiddleford ducked back under the fence, sending a quick affectionate gaze to Stan.

“Well?” Cricket jolted Stan’s attention back to them, “Ya gonna go or not?”

Stan took a breath, “Yeah, yeah. Yeesh, I’m getting to it, kid.”

Following Fiddleford’s instruction, he nudged the horses side a few times until it started walking. Pulling his left hand back, the horse turned and started following the fence line at an agonizingly slow pace. Pepper didn’t want to be doing this any more than he did and Stan could sympathize with that. His body slowly swayed back and forth in time to Pepper’s steps.

It was equal parts relaxing and uncomfortable. He could kind of see the appeal of riding a horse, even if it wasn’t necessarily for him.

He couldn’t see what would be fun for his audience though. He was aware of five pairs of eyes burning holes into his back and couldn’t imagine how boring it must be.

Ford seemed plenty entertained earlier, which said a lot for his twin. Stan always equated Ford’s high intelligence to why he was bored so easily. It took a lot to stimulate his brothers mind, yet he had been thoroughly amused to watch Stan struggle just a few moments ago.

Pepper plodded along the outside of the worn track, moving almost robotically. Fiddleford was true to his words, thankfully. After the third time around, he too was growing impatient of doing the same thing.

“Hey, how about I take you two on that tour now?” He called from the side of the ring. Stan agreed eagerly and Ford followed suit a few moments later.

Fiddleford let himself into the ring again and halted the pony. Stan cast a look of appreciation his way.

“How do I get down?” He asked.

“Let your feet hang out of the stirrups.” Fiddleford said, patting Stan’s foot as a reminder of what that was, “Then lean forward and slide your right foot over the back of the saddle and slide down.”

Sounded easy enough. But the Universe seemed to be determined to remind Stan that nothing was as simple as it seemed.

Sliding down from the saddle sounded graceful, but there was nothing about Stan’s dismount that could be called as such. Stumbling backwards, he tripped over one of his shoes and ended up with his ass in the dirt.

Fiddleford snorted and offered him a hand, “You alright there?”

Stan’s hand clasped in his as he pulled himself to his feet. He dusted off the back of his jeans once he was to his feet again.

“Peachy.”

Pulling the reins over Pepper’s head, Fiddleford handed them off to Bettina, who began to lead the horse towards the gate.

Fiddleford and Stan fell into step side by side as they too approached the gate where Ford and Kip were waiting.

“Well, you two have already seen the barn,” Fiddleford began when they were close enough to Ford, “We keep a handful of horses, as you’ve now seen. The horse pastures are behind the barn; you can probably see them from your window.”

“I thought you said you grew up on a hog farm?” Ford asked curiously.

Fiddleford nodded, “Yep. That’s how we make our livin’ but we’ve got a bit of everythin’ here. Horses, hogs, some chickens, and even a couple o’ cows.”

Stan whistled, “That’s a lot.”

Fiddleford chuckled fondly and began leading them down a small dirt road leading further away from the house.

“You didn’t bring us out here just to kill us, did you?” Stan asked.

Fiddleford laughed, “No, but I suppose this would be the best place to do it. Pigs are very good at disposing of a body; they’d even eat the bones.”

Ford’s eyes widened, “You speak as if you have experience in this.”

Fiddleford waved his hand at them, “Nonsense.” He said. After a moments hesitation, he added, “It’s not me you should be worrying about.”

Stan and Ford exchanged a worried look.

“I’m kiddin’, boys. There’s no murderers here.” Fiddleford insisted as he slowed to a stop.

Ford and Stan reluctantly relaxed as they looked around. There was a few more buildings and pastures spread out across the land. The air smelled strongly of farm animals.

“Ya get used t’ the smell after a while.” Fiddleford explained, seeing the twins noses wrinkle.

“So, this is where you keep the pigs?” Stan asked curiously.

Fiddleford nodded.

“So, is it fair to assume to assume you guys don’t have to buy bacon?”

Fiddleford snorted, “That’d be fair. We do have a slaughter house on the property.”

Stan’s eyes widened. “You ever slaughter a pig, Fiddlesticks?”

Fiddleford’s expression turns sheepish, “I have, yes.”

Stan whistled lowly, “You really are the ultimate farm boy.”

“That a good thing?” Fiddleford’s voice was still sheepish, and it only just occurred to Stan that he was nervous about what the two Jersey boys must be thinking.

Stan slung an arm over his shoulder, “Heh, sure it is. You wouldn’t be you if you came from anywhere else but here, and I happen to like ya just the way you are.”

Fiddleford’s cheeks flushed furiously and Stan tried to ignore the flush in his own cheeks.

He was also aware of Ford looking at him with a devilish smirk. Damn bastard.

“So, I believe I was led to believe you had some of your inventions around here?” Stan inquired. Distantly, the two children were running down the path towards them. Apparently they had already put the pony away. That, or they had pawned the job off on Kip (though Stan thought that seemed unlikely).

“I do, but fair warnin’, they’re from before college so they’re not as polished as some of my more recent works.” Fiddleford explained. Stan scoffed.

“Nonsense. Lead the way, Fidds.”

Stan was aware of how quiet Ford had been for the past few minutes. That couldn’t be good. He knew his brother was pushing at him to make a move with Fiddleford, and he wasn’t a fool to think that Ford wasn’t doing the same thing to his roommate.

He either had something up his sleeve, or was in the process of scheming.

The children slowed to a walk as they fell into step beside the trio.

“Where’re ya goin’?” Cricket asked.

“Showin’ em my old inventions.” Fiddleford explained.

“Oh! You gotta see the robot that shoots corn!” Bettina exclaimed. Her hand snatched Stan’s and began tugging him towards a shed further down the lane, seemingly not caring as Stan yelped in surprise. Ford and Fiddleford chuckled affectionately as they watched Stan stumble after her.

“He’s good with those kids, ain’t he?” Fiddleford commented affectionately.

He started to follow after them but stopped when Ford took his hand.

“You know, things have finally calmed down now.” Ford pointed out, giving him a knowing look.

Fiddleford averted his gaze purposefully, not wanting his friend to see the blush on his face.

“I know,” he said, a small, tender smile tugging at his lips, “I have a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I used my own horse's name in place of the pony. Also, anyone who’s ever ridden a pony will be able to verify that most of them are actually satan. 
> 
> Also, I did a cosplay kinda-sorta based off of this fic. If you’re interested in seeing it, it’s on my tiktok (search cryptidcosplays)


	21. Mountains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning; explicit sexual content

_Goodbye bad thoughts_  
_I'm safe under covers_  
_So goodbye bad thoughts_  
_'Cause I'm safe under covers_

Seeing as Stan was preoccupied with his private tour with Bettina and Cricket, Fiddleford decided to give Ford a private tour of his own. Ford was more curious about the inner workings of his machines, and other things that would probably bore the snot out of Stan. All in all, it worked out to give Ford a private tour, even if it meant that Fiddleford would have to deal with Ford’s probing gaze the whole time. 

All the while, Fiddleford couldn’t help but keep an ear out for Stan and his younger siblings. They were certainly loud, yelling and laughing at something or other, so it wasn’t like he had to try hard. It brought a smile to his face to see how well Stan was getting along with his family. He hadn’t thought Stan would be good with kids (then again, he hadn’t exactly thought he’d be bad with them either), but it was sweet to see him with Bettina and Cricket. It seemed Stan was full of surprises.

Eventually, Stan began making their way over to them, still laughing at something that one of the kids must have said. 

As Stan neared, Fiddleford caught a glimpse of the grin on Ford’s face. Ford set off in the direction Stan had came from, nudging his twin’s arm as he walked past him. Stan’s eyebrows furrowed and his gaze followed Ford’s as his twin departed. 

“What’s with him?” Stan asked as he turned his gaze back to Fiddleford. 

The southern man merely shrugged. “You wanna see that tree I’ve been tellin’ ya about?” He asked, deciding to change the subject and just be outright with it. He’d been waiting a long time to have this conversation with Stan, and now that he felt it was the right time to do so, he didn’t want to wait any longer.

Stan’s eyes practically lit up. Butterflies swirled in Fiddleford’s stomach as he offered a hand to Stan. 

Stan blinked for a moment before interlacing his fingers with Fiddleford’s. A blush dusted his cheeks as he lifted his warm gaze to Fiddleford’s. Together, they left the dirt road in favor of a trail cutting through the trees bordering the property. Gradually, the path weaved up a hill on one side. 

Stan glanced around at the new scenery and Fiddleford wondered how much of a shock this is for him. He could only imagine the places that Stan had been to over the course of his life. He knew he grew up by the beach, so he doubted he ever got to see farm land or forests. The past few years were even blurrier. 

He probably drove past land like this. Stan had been all across the country, and it was hard to avoid driving through farms, but he doubted Stan stuck around in small towns. Cities and larger towns would offer more of an opportunity for him to make some cash, as well as not stick out. In these parts, everyone knew everyone, and outsiders were a rare occurrence. Stan would have stuck out like a sore thumb. 

“How’re you enjoying your stay so far?” Fiddleford asked, breaking the comfortable silence. 

Stan’s smile turned in his direction and what Fiddleford wouldn’t give to make sure Stan always smiled at him like that. 

“Are ya kiddin’? It’s been great!” Stan exclaimed. 

“It’s not, uh, too much, is it?” Fiddleford asked cautiously. Stan’s world revolves around his family, and while he had Ford in his life again, he was sure he missed his Ma. 

The hand enclosed around his own squeezed gently, “It’s perfect.” Stan insisted, “I’ve never been happier, Fidds, and I have you to thank for that.” 

Fiddleford’s cheeks flushed darkly. 

“I’m happy too.” He smiled. They reached the top of the hill and the trees gave way to reveal the farm spread out before them. Just a few meters away from the tree line stood a big, old tree. His tree. 

Stan whistled, his gaze sweeping over the view. “This really is somethin’.” Fiddleford lead him towards the tree and sank down into the grass with his back leaning against the wide trunk. Stan followed suit and sat down beside him. 

So much of this reminded Fiddleford of their evening at the hill, back when Fiddleford still knew Stan as Sam. A lot had changed since then, yet some things remained the same. 

When Fiddleford looked away from the sprawling fields, he noticed that Stan was already looking at him with a peaceful smile. 

They hadn’t yet let go of each other’s hand, so Fiddleford tugged Stan’s into his lap. 

“Stan, I’ve been wantin’ t’ tell ya something for a while,” he began, “Especially after that night under the tree, but things got so hectic after that night.”

He looked up from their intertwined hands to see the shocked expression on Stan’s face. 

He can’t help the breathy laugh that left his lips. 

It was strange. He’d imagined how this talk would go a million times in his head, at least. He’d carefully envisioned everything he’d say to Stan so that it would be perfect, but now that the moment was here, he couldn’t recall what he had planned to say. Laughing lightly, he decided to just say what was on his mind, “What I’m tryin’ t’ say is I like ya, Stanley Pines.” 

Stan was quiet. He stared at Fiddleford with the same shocked expression on his face, as if his brain short circuited, and for a moment, Fiddleford wondered if he’d been reading all of the signs wrong, or that maybe Stan just went along with it to avoid the awkwardness of turning him down. 

He’s a moment away from opening his mouth to apologize, when Stan’s hand, the one not laced between Fiddleford’s, cupped his cheek. 

“I like ya a lot too, Fiddleford.” He replied, voice quiet and soft (or at least by Stan’s standards). He laughed airily, “I thought ya must have lost interest in me, not that I could blame ya.” 

Fiddleford chuckled affectionately, leaning into Stan’s touch, “It wasn’t that I lost interest. I wanted to say something sooner, but I didn’t want to distract you from the tournament, and there was so much goin’ on that I didn’t want t’ overwhelm ya.”

He squeezed Stan’s hand, “I was concerned for ya. You were dealin’ with a lot, and I didn’t want t’ add to it or pressure ya.”

Stan’s thumb brushed his cheek, “What do ya mean?”

Fiddleford’s gaze doesn’t flinch from Stan’s steady gaze, “I mean I want t’ be with ya.” He explained, “I want t’ be the one that gets t’ kiss ya to sleep, or hold your hand, or hold ya. Ya know, couple things.” 

Stan’s lips parted, but no words came out. Again, he looked at him with shock. 

“Is that ok?” Fiddleford asks, doubt beginning to prickle in the back of his mind again. He didn’t want to push too much or overwhelm him, especially not too soon. 

Stan smiled and leaned his face closer to Fiddleford. The southern man didn’t need to think as he leaned forward. The distance between them closed until their lips touched. 

It was a brief kiss. Stan was the first to lean away, leaving Fiddleford wanting more. 

“Yes,” Stan murmured quietly, “Yes, of course it’s ok. It’s more than ok.”

He kissed Fiddleford again. The hand on his cheek slid to rest on the back of Fiddleford’s neck, gently holding him in place as their lips moved together. 

Even though that first night under a different tree had been several weeks ago, they quickly resumed where they had left off. All of those weeks of building tension finally gave way. 

Their interlocked fingers released their hold as Fiddleford leaned closer to Stan, who’s free hand wrapped around Fiddleford’s thin waist. 

Fiddleford inched forward, nudging Stan back against the tree as he moved to straddle him. 

They seemed to move in sync. They broke the kiss in favor of allowing Stan to sit up more to give Fiddleford space to better sit on his lap. 

Leaning his forehead to Stan’s, Fiddleford searched Stan’s eyes. Something nagged at him, something else about that night. 

“Is this ok?” He asked breathlessly. It had been a few weeks since finding Stan in the alley, and the last thing he wanted to do was to push Stan too much and possibly trigger something about that night. 

Stanley hands grasped at the fabric of his shirt. 

“It’s more than ok.” He said, his voice barely a breathless whisper. 

Their lips met again and Fiddleford smiled into the kiss. 

Stan’s arms wrapped around his waist as he pulled him flush to his chest. Fiddleford’s hand came to rest on Stan’s shoulder as he leaned closer. 

All of these weeks of dancing around each other was finally breaking free. Fiddleford wondered exactly how long he had wanted to be held like this by Stan, or how long he had wanted to kiss his lips. 

He’d be lying if he said he’d never fantasized about doing this with Stan. Yet even in his wildest fantasies, he had never imagined it’d feel this good. 

Fiddleford pulled back ever so slightly so his hand could slip under Stan’s shirt. The skin underneath his fingertips was the perfect amount of soft yet toned. Fiddleford had always loved the soft pudge of Stan’s belly. Since he’d been training at the gym, some of the softness had given away to toned muscle, but luckily, his pudge still mostly remained. 

His skin was warm against his fingers and Fiddleford was briefly thankful that the December weather in Tennessee was nowhere near as harsh as the winters back at Backupsmore. 

Fiddleford’s fingers circled Stan’s nipple as his tongue flicked against Stan’s teeth. He wanted more. Needed more, in fact. No matter how close they were, it wasn’t close enough. 

Stan’s lips parted and Fiddleford’s tongue darted in to mingle with Stan’s tongue. 

Unable to help himself, Fiddleford moaned into the kiss. 

“God, Fiddleford.” Stan mumbled as their lips parted. His hands followed the curve of his waist to grasp the edges of Fiddleford’s shirt, tugging lightly, “I want you so bad.” 

Fiddleford sat up, pulling his shirt over his head before taking Stan’s shirt in his grasp and helping Stan out of its confines. 

Tossing the shirt to the side, Fiddleford’s gaze dropped to Stan’s bare chest. He had seen it plenty of times when Stan would box, but never this close (not to mention not since the attack). 

Bruises bloomed over Stan’s ribs in a collage of purples, blues and blacks. More faded were several scars, one of which matched his own still-healing wound. 

Fingers gingerly caressed over the circular scar near Stan’s collar bone. 

“We’re matching.” Fiddleford said, a bit of mirth in his tone. 

He looked up to Stan’s gaze to find the boxer was glued to Fiddleford’s fresher burn with a look of guilt. 

“Fiddleford..” Stan began, sorrow in his tone. 

Fiddleford pressed a finger to his lips, “Shh, you don’t need to apologize.” He murmured softly, leaning in close to pepper kisses across Stan’s jaw and down his neck, “This is supposed to be a happy time.” 

Stan barely concealed a moan as Fiddleford’s lips latched onto the sensitive spot on his neck, sucking lightly. 

“Fidds...” he gasped instead, his large hands curling around his waist once more. 

The southern man arched into his touch. Their bare chests pressed against each other. The skin on skin contact was something new and sent shivers down Fiddleford’s back. 

His heart hammered in his chest and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need for more. They’d spent weeks dancing around each other, around what they really wanted. Sure, they’d shared some brief kisses or their touch would linger for just a bit longer than it should have, but it hadn’t been enough. 

Now that everything had finally calmed down and everything was out in the open, Fiddleford couldn’t wait any longer. 

Thankfully, Stan couldn’t seem to wait either. 

“Stanley..” Fiddleford gasped out desperately. One of his hands carded through Stan’s long hair. 

He tilted his hips and— oh! He couldn’t hold back the needy groan that slipped past his lips as his hips brushed against Stan. Heat was starting to pool in his groin, and he was delighted to notice that Stan was starting to get excited as well. 

A still nagging part of his brain froze as his eyes darted to Stan. God knows how much he wanted him, but was this too much for Stan? 

Stan’s warm chuckle rumbled in his chest. 

“It’s ok,” he murmured quietly, as if reading his thoughts. He pressed his forehead to Fiddleford as he raised his hips to brush against Fiddleford’s, pulling Fiddleford from his thoughts and back to him. Their hot breath mingled between them as their breathing picked up, “I want this if you do.” 

Fiddleford met Stan’s upward movements as he rocked his hips against his. 

“I want this.” He gasped out, letting his eyes close as he pressed a tender kiss to the bridge of Stan’s nose. 

The air was silent, albeit for their soft moans, as they rutted against each other like a couple of eager teenagers. Stan’s hands trailed down his bare back until they came to rest on the curve of Fiddleford’s ass. 

The engineer bit his lip as Stan’s hands guided his hips in their movement. His own hands struggled to find the right place, first gripping Stan’s shoulders, then cupping his face before finally pressing his palm against Stan’s chest. 

The steady thump of Stan’s heartbeat against his palm and the hot breath tickling his ear only increased the building strain in his pants. 

What’s more, he could feel Stan pressed up between his legs, growing harder with each shift of their hips. 

“Stan..” he whispered. His back arched as he shifted. He needed more friction. He needed out of the confines of his pants. He needed to actually feel Stan. 

The boxer took pity on him. The movement of his hips stilled and the hands on his ass moved to gently nudge Fiddleford up. 

As Fiddleford sat up, Stan’s hands worked to undo the buttons of Fiddleford’s pants. His face was flushed a dark red and his pupils were practically blown with arousal. 

Fiddleford sat up more to help Stan in his quest to remove his pants. Stan tossed the pants to the side before turning his gaze back to Fiddleford. 

His gaze raked down the engineer who was still straddling his hips. His gaze lingered on the straining bulge in his briefs, swallowing thickly. 

Fiddleford’s hands moved to undo Stan’s pants. He had to regrettably shift off of the boxer as he tugged his pants off. Then it was his turn to take in the sight of his lover. 

He didn’t get a chance to admire him for long before he took pity on Stan’s impatient shifting. Swinging his leg back over Stan, he settled back with Stan between his legs. 

Stan’s hands caressed the length of his thighs. His thick thumbs rubbed firm circles into the inside of his leg.

Stan’s touch was like electricity. Everywhere his fingers touched seemed to tingle, sending shivers down his spine. Fiddleford could barely focus on anything outside of the sensations he was feeling. 

Fiddleford sat up, leaning his weight back into his hands as he tilted his hips downward. A needy moan escaped his lips as his groin rocked against Stan’s. 

Thick hands gripped his hips. Stan’s eyes watched him with a hungry need and Fiddleford was determined to give him a show. 

Fiddleford leveled a half-lidded gaze at the boxer beneath him, swiveling his hips in a circular motion as he ground his groin against Stan’s. His back arched backwards as he tilted his hips forward. 

A deep groan rumbled from Stan’s lips. One of the hands at his hips curled around to glide up his chest. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot.” Stan said, voice thick with arousal. 

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted you.” Fiddleford murmured, “How much I’ve fantasized about this moment.” 

Stan’s thumbs massages circles around Fiddleford’s nipples as his hips careened upwards against Fiddleford’s hips. 

Fiddleford gasped. Now free from the confines of their pants, they were steadily pitching a tent in their underwear. Fiddleford’s eyes dropped to Stan’s groin. 

Stan’s breath hitched as his head tilted back. 

“Fiddleford...” he gasped. His hands trailed back down Fiddleford’s chest before caressing his inner thigh. 

“I want you too,” he groaned, hands curving around his hips to grip his ass again, “I want you so bad.” 

His fingertips kneeled into the flesh of his ass. Fiddleford groaned, leaning forward until his lips were inches from Stan’s ear. 

“Then take me.” He whispered. 

Stan groaned, wasting no time as he pulled Fiddleford’s underwear down over his hips, freeing his cock. Stan’s gaze was hungry as he finally got to see him, all of him. 

Fiddleford was too impatient to let Stan get much of a look as he shifted off once more to pull Stan’s underwear down. No longer trapped under fabric, his cock sprung to life. Fiddleford eyed his dick with wide eyes, imagining how good and full he’d feel when Stan’s cock was buried to the hilt in his ass. 

Stan sat up, hands gently grabbing his shoulders and guiding him to lay on his back. Fiddleford eased back into the ground, grabbing one of the shirts and balling it up to fit under his back. 

Stan’s hands gripped his thighs and parted his legs. Fiddleford’s cheeks burned, feeling exposed yet somehow not feeling insecure. 

Stan frowned thoughtfully, “Are ya sure you wanna do this?” He asked sheepishly, “It’s gonna hurt seein’ as we don’t have any lube.” 

Fiddleford held up a finger and pulled his pants over from where he had discarded them. Rooting through one of his pockets, he procured a small travel sized bottle of lube, as well as a condom, and handed them to Stan with a blush. 

Stan’s jaw dropped as he took the bottle and wrapped condom. 

“Were you planning for this?” He asked with a laugh. 

Fiddleford shrugged sheepishly, “I wanted to be prepared, just in case.” He said, “But yes, I was hopin’ this would happen.” 

Stan popped the bottle of lube, “Well, I’m glad one of us was prepared.” He said as he squirted a generous amount of lube onto his finger. 

As he set the bottle down, his clean hand gently pushed Fiddleford’s legs apart more. 

“Ya know we can stop if this hurts too much, or ya change your mind.” Stan said, looking to Fiddleford with a serious expression. 

Fiddleford smiled softly, “I know. I want this, Stanley.” 

Stan smiled and leaned forward to press his lips to Fiddleford’s as a finger circled the ring of his hole. The sensation was odd at first, but Stan’s kiss helped him relax into the feeling. 

His arms wrapped around the back of Stan’s neck as he pulled Stan into a deeper kiss. Slowly, Stan pushed a finger in. 

Fiddleford stiffened slightly at the intrusion. Stan broke the kiss in favor of leaving a trail of kisses across Fiddleford’s jaw. Slowly, the finger inside him began to move. It was agonizingly slow at first, giving Fiddleford time to adjust to the foreign feeling. 

As he relaxed more, Stan’s finger became two. To his relief, he adjusted to the feeling quicker than before and soon found himself leaning into Stan’s hand to let him know he could move. 

Stan’s fingers slowly yet steadily pumped into him. The lips on his jaw moved down his neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin. A small gasp left Fiddleford’s lips as he tilted his head back, exposing more of his neck. 

Stan’s fingers made scissoring motions inside him, stretching his hole. With each new movement, he paid extra attention to his neck, eliciting moans from the smaller man beneath him. 

Fiddleford almost didn’t notice when two fingers became three. Stan’s wrists curled as he thrust his fingers into him. His hand continued to change angles, as if searching for something. 

Fiddleford realized this to be true as Stan’s fingers brushed against a bundle of nerves within him that sent waves of pleasure through his body. Unprepared for such a sensation, Fiddleford moaned loudly and leaned his hips back against Stan’s fingers. 

“Stan!” He gasped as his hands tightened their grip on his shoulders, “Don’t stop!” 

Stan’s breathing was hot on his neck as he continued thrusting his fingers into that spot, drawing a needy moan from the man beneath him with each thrust. 

Fiddleford was squirming as Stan’s finger fucked into him and his breath was fast. 

“Please, Stan,” he begged, “I-I need ya inside me now.”

Stan didn’t need to be told twice. He sat up as he retracted his fingers. Fiddleford whined at the sudden emptiness. 

“Don’t you worry.” Stan soothed as he ripped the condom packet open, “I’ll take good care of you.” 

Fiddleford watched as Stan rolled the condom onto his cock before squirting a generous amount of lube onto his member. 

He nearly moaned again as he watched Stan give himself a few strokes to spread the lube around his cock. 

Stan turned his attention back to him, gripping his thighs as he wrapped them around his sides. His upper body leaned over Fiddleford. The tip of his cock bumped against his rear as Fiddleford wrapped his legs around Stan’s waist. 

Stan pressed a chaste yet tender kiss to Fiddleford’s lips as he took himself in his hand. Glancing down between them, he lined his cock up to Fiddleford’s hole and slowly pressed in. 

As his head pushed past the rim, Fiddleford gasped. Lips pressed against his as Stan slowly pressed in until he bottomed out. 

Fiddleford had never felt so filled in his life. He had imagined this moment so many times before, but never had he imagined it would be quite like this. Stan paused in his movements, giving Fiddleford time to adjust to his girth inside him. 

A hand gently carded through his hair until the tension slowly left Fiddleford’s shoulders. The southern man tilted his hips upward, signally that Stan could move. 

Stan’s forehead leaned against his as he slowly pulled almost all the way out. With a slow jerk, he thrust back into Fiddleford, earning a soft gasp. Fiddleford’s arms came to wrap around Stan’s back as Stan picked up a steady rhythm. 

Stan’s head shifted until his mouth was beside his ear. The hot air that left his mouth with each deep grunt sent shivers down Fiddleford’s spine. 

Stan briefly paused in his thrusts to shift his angle. Thrusting sharply, his cock brushed against the bundle of nerves once again. Fiddleford’s loud moan punctuated the air. 

“Oh God!” He gasped, hands scrambling for purchase on Stan’s back. “Right there! Don’t stop!” 

Stan’s pace picked up as he thrust into Fiddleford’s heat, a soft grunt whispering in Fiddleford’s ears with each movement. Fiddleford desperately rocked his hips back into Stan’s, a tumble of moans, gasps, and pleas coming from his lips. 

He bit his lips to withhold a loud moan as Stan’s warm hand curled around his cock, stroking him in time to his thrusts. 

“Oh god! Yes, just like that.” Fiddleford moaned, turning his face into the side of Stan’s head as he was overwhelmed by pleasure. He would feel the heat beginning to pool in his groin and knew he wasn’t going to last long. 

As he neared his completion, his moans picked up in volume until it all became too much. He threw his head back with a loud moan as his cock shot warm cum across Stan’s hand and his lower stomach. Stan’s hand milked him through his orgasm as Stan nibbled his ear lobe. 

Stan’s thrusts picked up speed, pounding into Fiddleford’s ass as he chased his own orgasm. Feeling overstimulated, Fiddleford whimpered a moan. 

His nails gently raked down Stan’s back as the boxer continued to pound into him. 

“Come on, Darlin’” Fiddleford cooed into Stan’s ear, clenching around his cock, “Come for me.” 

Groaning deeply, Stan’s thrusts rapidly began to lose its rhythm until with one final push deep into him, Stan came with a loud moan. His thrusts slowed to slow pushes as he rode out his orgasm. 

Fiddleford groaned, feeling Stan’s cock twitching inside him as he spilled his seed into the condom. The boxer slowed to a stop, panting heavily. He lifted his head to look at Fiddleford with a warm look. Still buried in Fiddleford, he cupped his cheek and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. One that Fiddleford eagerly returned. 

“God, that was more than I ever thought it would be.” Stan whispered as he pulled away. He slowly pulled out of Fiddleford and pulled off the spent condom. He settle down beside Fiddleford. Arms wiggled behind him to pull him close into an embrace that Fiddleford happily returned. Curling onto his side, Fiddleford rest his head against Stan’s shoulder. 

“Agreed.” Fiddleford whispered tenderly, reaching across Stan’s chest to lace their fingers together. 

They remained like that until at long last, they decided they should head back before anyone came looking for them. They collected their clothes still strewn around the tree and made their way back down the path. 

Stan’s hand curled against his and a gently kiss was pressed to his cheek. 

They had no need for words as they wove back down the trail, simply enjoying the comfortable silence. 

The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon, casting pastel rays across the sky. 

As the farm came back into view, they could make out Ford by the barn with the kids as they fed the horses in the waning light. The older twin glanced towards their direction and a smile spread across his features as he saw the couple walking hand in hand. 

“I take it your talk went well.” Ford asked. 

Stan glanced to Fiddleford with a soft smile before turning his gaze back to his twin. His other arm curled around Ford’s shoulder, pulling him close. 

“You could say that.” Stan replied, a content smile on his lips and an uncharacteristic soft look in his eyes. 

“It’s about time.” Ford teased his twin, “You came just in time; your Ma is almost done with dinner and I suspect she was about to send a search party for you.” 

“Good thing ya didn’t.” Stan mumbled. 

Fiddleford bit back a snort, “Come on, you two.” He said, leading the twins back towards the house, “If the two of ya’s thought lunch was good, Ma goes all out for dinner.” 

As they neared the porch, Ma exited through the screen door. 

“There you boys are.” She exclaimed, “I was beginnin’ t’ think y’all wandered off too far.” 

“Are ya kiddin’?” Stan laughed, “I wouldn’t dream of missin’ dinner. Fidds was just raving about it.” 

Ma led the two boys back into the house. The heavenly scent of her cooking drifted to greet them. As she led the two twins towards the table, Fiddleford watched with an affectionate smile. 

It was already as if they were part of the family. It warmed his heart to see the twins so at home, and Stan was practically soaking it all in. It amazed Fiddleford that despite being literally disowned and kicked to the curb, family still meant more than anything to him. 

Stan had gone four years without having a family to call his own; Fiddleford could only imagine how much Stan had missed a family atmosphere. 

He just hoped that maybe the Pines family could be repaired in the near future. 

Obviously getting Ford back had meant a lot to Stan. He could still see it in his eyes whenever Stan would look at Ford when he didn’t think anyone was watching him. 

But there was still the matter of his parents, as well as his older brother. Fiddleford doubted either twin cared much for their father (and rightfully so) but Fiddleford knew how much Stan missed his Ma. 

With enough nagging on his end, he was sure he could get the twins to give her a call. 

Either way, they still had plenty of time. Things were finally beginning to look hopeful for all three of them, and in a strange way, the recent “run in” with Stan’s past had helped in a way. 

In the few short days since, Stan had seemed more relaxed in the home, more himself. He didn’t seem to be walking on eggshells when he joked around with Stanford, and Fiddleford hoped that Stan realized that they were here to stay. 

Besides, as long as he was around, he wasn’t going to let the twins not communicate with each other. Luckily, they seemed to be doing better on that front, but even still, Ford had needed a bit of a pep talk after recent events to remember to talk things through with Stan rather than stew in that big head of his. 

Stan’s past was out in the open now. Even though he’d had some of it forced out thanks to Rico, but again, it had ended up working out in their favor. It might have been hard for Stan to be so honest about the things that happened in his past, but Fiddleford could tell there was no more weight on his shoulders weighing him down. 

The twins could finally begin to move on and learn to be brothers again. 

“Ya comin’ to the table or are ya just gonna stand in the doorway?” Stan asked, cutting through his thoughts. 

Fiddleford smiled and followed his boyfriend (he was definitely going to have to get used to that, but he couldn’t be happier) to the table. 

Everyone had already gathered around and Fiddleford and Stan were the last to sit down. His family was already loudly chatting with one another as they helped themselves to dinner. Stan was quick to join in with an equally loud joke that Fiddleford couldn’t help but smile at. 

It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering this fic and the chapters are named after Radical Face songs (not to mention heavily influenced by the band) I feel its fitting to note that Radical Face is finally touring in the US for the first time in years! If any of yall are going (especially to the Philly show ayYY) hit me up!


	22. The Crooked Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to edit. Between my classes, and realizing that my timeline was waYYYY off when I started writing this fic, it’s been slow going trying to fix it all at the last chapter. I’ve decided to just trash worrying about the timeline/inconsistencies (mainly in regard for Ford’s schooling especially since that man is crazy to get a phD in such a short time) for now so I can just get this chapter posted. I apologize that it’s probably annoying, but once this fic is up, I’ll probably go back and fix it to line up with a more accurate timeline (probably won’t help y’all reading this now but at least it will for ((hopefully)) future readers). Sorry for the wait and any confusion!

_The thunder plays it's drum_   
_The air is heavy with the smell of storms_   
_And I sit beside my brother and I feel him shake_   
_As he laughs himself right back to sleep_   
_And I'm laughin' with him_

May, 1975

It was finally the day. Stan glanced at the watch on his wrist nervously. He hadn’t seen his family in over four years (sans Ford, of course). They’d arrived from their flight late last night, and luckily, it had been too late for them to visit before hand.

While he was excited to see Ma, Shermie and Jacob again, he was nervous about seeing Filbrick for the first time since he was kicked out.

The past half year had given him plenty of time to reflect about that night in a way he hadn’t thought about when he had been homeless. He understood now that his father hadn’t expected him to ever make a million dollars; he’d simply wanted to get rid of him.

It was no secret his parents hadn’t planned for twins. Filbrick was not known to be a warm or affectionate man. His own father had kicked him out with an already packed bag, knowing he never expected to see his son again.

When Stan had come to this realization, it had stung like a bitch. Yet Filbrick’s empty promise of Stan’s terms to come home had been the one thing that had kept him going, kept him moving, in the years he had been living out of his car.

There had been many times over the years when he had been tempted to give up and stop trying, but he never gave into that temptation. Not when there was still a chance he could strike it rich and come home to his family.

It had been Filbrick’s terms of return that kept him going, but it had never been about seeing his father again that motivated Stan. If getting a million dollars meant he and Ford could be brother’s again, or that Stan could see his mother, or Shermie, or his nephew, then he’d stop at nothing until he struck it big.

Things were different now. He didn’t need a million dollars to prove his worth or keep his place with the small family he had now. He had gotten the job as a boxing trainer after the tournament and while it wasn’t a million dollars, it was a steady job (one that he loved) and it paid well enough.

While that was enough for Ford and Fiddleford, he wasn’t sure that would be enough for Filbrick.

He hadn’t noticed his foot was tapping the floor nervously until a hand curled around his. Looking up, his gaze met Fiddleford’s concerned expression.

They’ve been a couple ever since they went to his family's farm for Christmas. As Stan recalled that day, it seems so long ago, yet he could also remember it as vividly as if it happened yesterday.

“You doin’ ok?” Fiddleford’s gentle question tugged him back to the present.

“I don’t know,” Stan said truthfully. A sigh heaved from his lips, “It’s been over five years since I’ve seen them. Today’s supposed to be Ford’s day, and I don’t want to ruin that with how Pa will react to seein’ me.”

Truthfully, he didn’t know if he could stay cool when faced by his father. He could say he could do it for Ford all he wanted, but he wasn’t just going to sit back and let his father say or do whatever to him.

“You’re excited to see your Ma, and Shermie and Jacob though, right?” Fiddleford asked.

Stan nodded, “Of course I am.”

Fiddleford offered an encouraging smile, “Then just think about that. They’re goin’ t’ be excited t’ see ya too, and I ain’t leavin’ your side, so you’ll have all of us.”

Stan didn’t want to point out how his mother hadn’t stood up for him when he got kicked out and he doubted if she’d stick up for him now. He wasn’t sure what to think about Shermie, but he knew his boyfriend did have one good point; he’d have Fiddleford.

“You’re right.” Stan sighed, forcing himself to relax.

“‘Course, I am. Ya still haven’t realized that after all this time?” Fiddleford teased.

Stan smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he squeezed Fiddleford’s hand.

Footsteps sounded from the hallway, approaching the living room. Fiddleford and Stan turned to watch as Stanford came into view, dressed in his cap and gown. Multiple colored tassels and medallions hung from his neck.

Stan whistled. “I’ve never seen ya look so nerdy in all my life.” Despite the joke, there was nothing but pride in his voice. He had missed their high school graduation, but he was glad he could at least make it to his college graduation.

Ford smiled timidly, “Do I look ok?”

Fiddleford stepped up to his roommate, fixing a few stray hairs that poked out from under his cap awkwardly, “Ya look handsome.”

Ford scoffed, “You’re just saying that because I look the same as your boyfriend.”

“Well, I do have to say, I’m still not used to you two looking so similar now that Stan got that haircut.” Fiddleford admitted.

“Thank God that mullet is dead.” Ford muttered.

“You guys just don’t appreciate fashion.” Stan grumbled.

“Oh, we do, that’s why we’re glad ya finally got it cut.” Fiddleford teased.

Stan crossed his arms over his chest with a playful pout.

“Oh! Hold on, boys!” Fiddleford exclaimed as he hurried back down the hallway towards his room. Stan and Ford groaned, having been through the drill enough times to know what was going on.

“Don’t you groan at me!” Fiddleford chastised as he came back a few minutes later with the Polaroid clutched between his hands, “Now get close. I want one of the both of ya now. We’ll get a solo shot of Ford once he has his diploma to show off.”

Stan grinned as he threw an arm over Ford’s shoulders.

“I’m real proud of ya, Sixer,” he said, purposefully looking at the camera, “I know how hard ya had to work for this; not a lot of people can do that. You’re gonna do great things, bro.”

Stanford looked to his twin, wrapping his arm around Stan’s back and pulling him close. “Thank you, Stanley.” He replied, voice thick with emotion, “I’m glad you could be here to share this day with me.”

Ford finally looked back to the camera and Fiddleford took the picture.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Stan smiled affectionately, “Even if the gym hadn’t given me the day off, I would have called out.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

In an uncharacteristic show of affection, Ford pulled Stan into a hug. Stan didn’t hesitate to hug his twin back, a warm laughter bubbling from his lips.

“Come on, Sixer,” Stan said, patting his brothers shoulders, “Today’s supposed to be a happy day.”

Ford pulled back from the hug, a watery smile on his lips, “I am happy.”

“I hate t’ butt in between yas, but we should be leaving if we want to get there on time.” Fiddleford hesitantly cut in.

“Right,” Stan said, his voice dropping ever so slightly, “I’m sure Ma will want to get pictures of ya.”

It was only a short walk to the auditorium from their apartment. As they approached, they could see the cluster of graduates and their families outside.

“Yeesh, it feels like we just did this whole mess.” Stan grumbled as they approached.

“We did,” Fiddleford replied with a chuckle, “I can’t believe it’s only been a semester since I graduated.”

Stan threw an arm around his shoulder, “And look at ya now, a real inventor now.”

Ford groaned, “You two are such saps.”

Stan rolled his eyes with a smile as he tugged Ford closer and threw an arm around his shoulders. “Says the guy who was just gettin’ all teary eyed just a few minutes ago.”

Ford playfully butted his shoulder against Stan’s, “Says you. You were getting all sappy too.”

“Boys!” Fiddleford chidded, only half serious judging by the smile stretched across his lips, “Behave yourselves.”

As the crowd became dense, Stan dropped his arm from around their shoulders in favor of weaving through the vast crowd.

“You better get in there, Sixer. You don’t want to be late.” Stan said, patting his twin across the back. Ford nodded and retreated into the throng of graduates gathered in the auditorium with a quick farewell.

“How’s about you and me find some seats, huh?” Fiddleford asked, smiling softly. Without Ford around, there wasn’t as much reason for him to keep up a brave face.

“Sounds good to me.” Stan replied, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes gave away his emotions; reading Stan’s eyes was a skill Fiddleford had picked up over the past year and a half. Anxiety was swimming in his eyes.

Fiddleford’s hand rested on the flat of Stan’s back as they wove their way through the crowd. After presenting their tickets to the people waiting outside the auditorium, they scanned the auditorium for two seats.

As they sat, Stan glanced around the auditorium, his dark eyes carefully scanning the seats for his family. Even with his keen eyes, there were too many people to pick a few of them out of the crowd.

Given how little space there was, the couple had no choice but to sit with their knees touching. Fiddleford laid his hand across Stan’s hand that was propped up on his knee.

It seemed to take forever for the ceremony to start, and even longer for it to finish. Stan didn’t care much for most of the ceremony, much less be preoccupied enough to keep his thoughts from swirling around in his head. With each passing second, his stomach twisted and knotted together.

At long last, Ford took the stage to give a speech as valedictorian. For the duration of his speech, Stan’s worries halted in favor of hearing his twin’s speech.

The pair of them had heard the speech before. Well, parts of it anyway. Ford didn't want to spoil the whole thing, but he had been nervous to speak in front of the whole graduating class and their families. He had turned to them for some direction in his writing process, and yet despite this, Stan was all ears as his brother took the podium.

“Today marks the end of another chapter of our lives. For many of us, Backupsmore became our home away from home. It was a place where we learned to adapt and grow, a place where we discovered ourselves, and a place where we made life-long friends. But as one chapter ends, another one begins. New beginnings can be scary, but we’ve all learned to meet challenges head on,

“As you embark on your new journeys, I implore you to remember this quote; Ad aspera per aspera. To the stars through difficulties. Graduates, parents, friends and professors, thank you for your attention. Congratulations, graduating class of 1976.”

The crowd clapped as Ford stepped off the stage, with Fiddleford and Stan amongst them. Stan subtly wiped at his eyes, and thankfully Fiddleford decided not to tease him about it.

The graduates were called up by name to receive their diplomas. Seeing as Pines was towards the end of the list, they had another long while to wait.

When Ford’s name was finally called, Stan and Fiddleford both hollered as Ford strode across the stage. With pride in his eyes, Stan watched as Ford shook hands with the administrators before taking the diploma handed to him.

As he left the stage, he glanced towards their direction with what Stan could only imagine was a grin.

The last of the names were called, and at long last, the ceremony came to an end.

The families began filing out of the auditorium after the graduates left the auditorium. Barely withholding a sigh, Stan got to his feet.

“Alright,” he said, stretching his back out after sitting for so long, “Let’s do this.”

* * *

After weaving back out through the crowd leaving the auditorium, Stan and Fiddleford stood by the door from which the graduates were supposed to leave. Stan’s foot anxiously tapped against the floor as he kept his eyes trained on the door, searching for his brother as the graduates began filing through the door and searching for their families.

Fiddleford itched to provide some sort of comfort from Stan, but considering how many people were around, the best he could do was subtly lean his shoulder against Stan’s.

“There he is!” Stan finally exclaimed as he spotted his twin’s mousy brown hair bobbing through the crowd. Stan raised his hand to wave his brother over with a broad grin. As Ford spotted the pair, his eyes lit up with recognition.

The brothers embraced when Ford joined them. After a few moments, the brothers pulled away, but both of their grins were still firmly in place.

“Let’s see that fancy diploma of yours!”

Ford smiled bashfully as he showed them the thick diploma holder he had received. Fiddleford knew from experience that it would take some time for him to receive the real diploma.

Stan whistled, “That was a nice speech you gave.”

Ford chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “Thanks, Stanley.”

Fiddleford stepped forward, “Congratulations, Ford. You’re finally done.”

He recalled how much of a relief it was when he graduated and could actually start working in what he had dreamed of doing.

“I’m not quite done. I still have a lot of schooling to get my PhD.” Ford pointed out.

“Yeah, but you already been accepted for a combined Grad-PhD program.” Fiddleford said, “I give ya another four years until we’ve gotta’ do another one of these.”

Ford scoffed.

“You got an idea of what you want’a research yet?” Stan asked. He hooked an arm around his twins shoulder as they started to make their way out of the building.

“Actually,” Ford said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you guys about that. There’s a small town out in Oregon that has a high concentration of strange anomalies. I want to go out there to study it and was hoping that you two would want to join me.”

Stanley mused, “Oregon, huh?”

“I know you have your job at the gym here, and Fiddleford’s been working on his projects, so I know it might be too much to ask you to just pick everything up and move halfway across the country but I jus—“ Ford’s rambling was cut off by Stan.

“Woah, woah, I’m not saying I’m not interested. Oregon sounds like it’d be nice. I can’t speak for Fiddleford, but I’m sure I could work something out.” Stan replied, a grin on his face, “We’ll talk more about it at home, but for now, how’s about we try and find Ma.”

“Oh! Hold on!” Fiddleford interjected, grabbing the Polaroid camera that hung from his neck. “I want that picture of you with your diploma.”

Ford groaned, “The real diploma’s not even in here,” he said, holding up the thick diploma cover.

“I don’t care. I want a picture with you in yer cap and gown with yer diploma!” Fiddleford insisted.

Ford relented and moved to stand against the wall, holding his diploma in front of his chest.

“Thank you,” Fiddleford said as he put the camera to his face, snapping the picture.

“See? That wasn’t too hard.” Fiddleford couldn’t help but tease as he took the blank polaroid from the camera and tucked it into his breast pocket.

Ford just groaned, “Now can we go?”

“Yes, yes, we can go.” Fiddleford agreed. Now content that he had his picture, the trio wove between the families clustered outside the building, searching the crowd for a familiar face.

They meandered through the crowd for what felt like minutes but was probably just a few moments until Stan abruptly stiffened.

“Stanford.” He said, his tone strangely serious.

Ford and Fiddleford both looked at him, shocked to hear him say Ford’s full name.

“What?” Ford asked.

“I swear to God, if you make fun of me for what I’m about to do, I’ll tell everyone about the time you drank ‘coffee’ made out of dirt and didn’t notice.” Stan said.

“What—? What are you talking abo---“ Ford’s question was cut off as he followed Stan’s gaze and saw his mother and Shermie, trailed by Jacob approaching them.

“Oh.”

Stan’s arm around his shoulder disappeared as he broke out ahead of them.

“Ma! Shermie! Jacob!” Stan exclaimed above the chatter of the crowd.

Ma’s face lit up. Tears were already welling in her eyes seeing as Stan darted through the crowd to get to them.

“Oh! My little Stanley!” She cried loudly. Her heels clicked on the pavement as she broke into a trot. Fiddleford smiled softly as the pair hugged tightly.

He and Ford stayed back a few feet, not wanting to encroach on their reunion. Behind the three of them, Fiddleford could see Filbrick slowly making his way through the crowd. Anxiety gnawed at his guts. He couldn’t see the man’s expression from behind the dark sunglasses.

“Hey Ma,” Stan’s quivering tone snapped Fiddleford’s attention back to him. “It’s been a while.”

Ma parted from the hug, her hands dropping from around his back to instead cup his cheeks, “My sweet boy,” her voice was quivering just as much as his, “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

“Hey, quit hoggin’ him.” Shermie interrupted good naturedly, “You at least got phone calls, I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.”

Stan’s face flushed as he turned to Shermie. Tears were welled in his eyes without shame.

“Sherm.” The two brothers shared a tight hug. Fiddleford could see Shermie’s mouth moving but his voice was too low for him to make out what he was saying.

Stan laughed at whatever he said, “I missed ya too, Sherm.”

Shermie pulled away to rest a hand on the young boys shoulder. “You remember Jacob right?”

Stan crouched down on a knee as he grinned at his nephew, “How could I forget such a cute face.”

Jacob tightly clung to Shermie’s pant leg, but there was a shy excitement in his eyes.

“You remember me?” Stan asked, voice dipping with insecurity, “I’m your Uncle Stanley.”

Shermie nudged the boy closer, “Say hi, Jacob.” He looked to Stan’s face, “Ma tells me some of the stories you tell her, and Jacob loves hearin’ about them. You’re practically his hero.”

The tears welled in Stan’s eyes threatened to spill over, “That right?” He said, offering Jacob a watery smile, “Ya know, Ma tells me about you too. She tells me you’re startin’ kindergarten this year, right?”

Jacob minutely nodded, daring to come out from behind Shermie’s leg more.

Stan straightened up, glancing towards Fiddleford’s direction with a sheepish smile.

Ma followed his gaze to Fiddleford. She finally seemed to see Ford standing beside him.

“My little Stanford!” She exclaimed, tugging him into a tight hug. “Oh, look at you in your cap and gown. You look so handsome, honey.”

“Thanks Ma,” Ford smiled, “It’s good to see you.”

“Oh honey, you know I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’m so proud of you.” She pinched his cheeks affectionately. Stan snorted in a thinly concealed laugh as he joined Fiddleford’s side with Shermie and Jacob.

“Valedictorian, and already accepted for both masters and PhD programs?” Shermie whistled, “I know you were smart, but damn Ford.”

Ford flushed under all the praise.

It was this moment that Filbrick finally pushed his way through the crowd to where his family was clustered. Stan stiffened ever so slightly, and it took all of Fiddleford’s self restraint to not take his hand.

“I’d have to agree with Shermie,” the man spoke, his tone oddly flat, “I’m quite impressed.”

Ford’s hands clutching his folder twitched nervously and his expression morphed ever so briefly into one that Fiddleford couldn’t quite make out.

The expression was gone as soon as it came as Ford smoothed a smile onto his face.

“Thanks, Pa.” He replied.

“And you must be the roommate we’ve been hearing so much about.” Ma said, directing her attention to Fiddleford. There was a knowing twinkle in her eye as she smiled at him, “Both of my boys practically rave about you.”

Dread ran down Fiddleford’s back. There was something about the look in her eye that suggested she knew more than just being the brother’s roommate. Stan hadn’t said anything to her about the nature of their relationship, did he? They’d already talked about how they weren’t sure how Stan’s family would react. His father certainly wouldn’t approve, but they weren’t so sure about his mother or Shermie. He doubted Stan had told her, and he found it hard to believe that Ford would out them.

Just as easily as Ford had done a few moments prior, Fiddleford smoothed an easy smile on his face and extended a hand to their mother, “I’ve heard a lot about you as well. All good things of course!” In truth, he had met Stan because he needed an extra quarter to call her. In a strange way, it was because of her that he met him.

She waved a hand dismissively at his hand with a scoff, “Please, I hear how much you keep my two boys sane. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already family.” Her arms wrapped around him and Fiddleford didn’t hesitate to hug back. A familiar smell filled his nostrils and he realized that Stan must smoke the same brand of cigarettes as his mother.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pines.” Fiddleford smiled as they pulled away. The woman leveled another gaze at him, a knowing twinkle in her eyes as her lips twitched into a gentle smile.

The moment faded away and she turned her attention back to Ford.

“You ready to go for lunch, honey?” She asked cheerfully. Ford nodded.

He gave her directions to the restaurant, telling her that they’d take Stan’s car and meet them there. With the plan decided, the Pines family started pushing through the crowd once again.

Yet not everyone moved immediately. Icy dread coursed down his side when he noticed Filbrick was letting the others get ahead of him. His gaze was intent on Stan, and judging by the deer-in-the-headlights look on Stan’s face, he noticed this.

Fiddleford looked to Ford, who shot a worried glance his way. The two of them wordlessly fell into step beside each other, keeping their steps slow so they were just a few steps ahead of Stan. Fiddleford has promised him he’d have him by his side, and he wanted to make sure he could jump in if Stan needed him.

“Pa,” Stan spoke, his voice surprisingly evenly.

“Stanley.” Filbrick said, his voice as expressionless as his expression.

A silence hung thick in the air and Ford and Fiddleford briefly exchanged a look, wondering if Filbrick was whispering so they couldn’t hear.

Stan was the first to speak up, sounding hesitant, “It’s, uh, it’s been a while.”

Filbrick just hummed in response, “Your Mother tells me you’ve been working as a boxing trainer down at the gym.”

“Yes, they hired me after I won a tournament they were hosting.” Stan explained.

Ahead of them, the family was splitting off; Ma, Shermie and Jacob we’re heading towards where their car was parked, and Fiddleford and Ford were turning in the opposite direction to walk to Stan’s car.

Filbrick merely grunted. He didn’t say another word as he turned to follow the group heading to their car. Stan briefly glanced after him before turning to Ford and Fiddleford who had stopped to wait for him.

Fiddleford’s eyes carefully scanned Stan’s face. He wasn’t sure what to read from that encounter. Granted, it could have gone much worse, and he’d be willing to bet that Stan was expecting the worst.

Stan looked just as confused as him as he rejoined the Fords (somewhere along the way, Fiddleford had picked up Stan’s nickname for them).

“Huh, that was weird.” Stan muttered when they were far enough away that only he and Ford would hear.

“Was it just me, or was that a grunt of approval?” Ford asked, equally as shocked as Stan.

Stan shrugged, “Maybe? It didn’t sound like a grunt of disapproval, at the least.”

“That’s good then, ain’t it?” Fiddleford smiled, “I think we were all assuming the worst would happen, and it didn’t so that’s a start.”

Stan nodded slowly as he considered his words. The tension in his shoulders slowly ebbed away.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Fiddleford laughed and finally gave into the urge to take Stan’s hand, seeing as there was finally no one around to see them.

“When are ya gonna learn that I’m always right?”

Stan laughed and playfully bumped into his shoulders.

“You didn’t tell your mother about us, did you?” Fiddleford asked.

Stan glanced towards his direction with a cocked eyebrow.

“No. Why? Did she say somethin’ to you?” He asked.

Fiddleford shook his head, “No, but she just.. I don’t know.. had a look?”

Stan snorted, “You forget that Ma’s a psychic.”

Ford looked towards Stan with a deadpan look, “You mean Ma’s a phony psychic, right?”

“Don’t let Ma hear you say that.” Stan chuckled. Fiddleford smiled and squeezed his hand.

“At any rate, she seemed happy for us.” Fiddleford commented.

Stan smiled affectionately, “Ma’s good like that.”

Ford looked back ahead, but Fiddleford could tell he wore the same affectionate smile.

“So, we’re getting a free meal and then what? Gettin’ some booze? Talkin’ over this whole Gravity Falls thing?” Stan asked.

Ford smiled, “Sounds good to me.”

Stan unlocked the car doors as the trio arrived. They piled into the Stanleymobile before pulling out of the parking spot.

As they drove through town towards the restaurant, Fiddleford stole a glance at Stan as he drove. A small smile curled at the corners of his lips and there was a soft look in his eyes.

His eyes lifted from the road to glance at the rear view mirror, affectionately smiling at his brother’s reflection. When he glanced towards Fiddleford, his eyes slightly widened to see that the engineer was already looking at him with a soft smile.

Stan returned the smile and reached his hand over the center consul to lace his fingers through Fiddleford’s.

His gaze turned back to the road, and after a moment's pause, Fiddleford’s gaze followed suit.

So much had changed in the past year. There was no way he could have anticipated what just a short year could have given him.

He had not one but two people who he knew would always be by his side. They’d seen more than their fair share of hardships, especially early on, but they had managed to stay together through it all and come out stronger as a result.

The future might be a bit uncertain at the moment, whether they moved to Oregon or somewhere else entirely, but Fiddleford knew that as long as he had the Pines twins by his side, he was ready to take on whatever the future might have in store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! I’ve had a lot of fun writing this, but seeing the response to this has really made it worthwhile. I hope you enjoyed it! I’ve got some other things in the works, so if you enjoyed this, then maybe give that a look. <3


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